The Way We Live Now - 57

discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he
could not fly. And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he
would do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man
come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner
or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Croll
as well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with a
razor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an
end to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be
shown up into his room.

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very
long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was
still upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was
fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When
the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though
to support himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in,
and Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly.
Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession
of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the
bag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the
bag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in
his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been
forged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll
should be ignorant of what had been done. "Well, Croll," he said
with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" He was
pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain
himself from trembling.

"Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night," said Croll.

"Eh!"

"And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all."
Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's
face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.


[Illustration: "He thought I had better bring these back to you."]


"Eh!" repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from
all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not
assume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen
Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered
the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged
documents. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the
most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature
such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signature
was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said
I'd bring them to you in the morning."

They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll;
but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends had
resolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired
to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!
Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking
in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him
in forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to
such an occasion. "It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll.
Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. "I vill not be back in the
Lane, Mr. Melmotte."

"Not back at the office, Croll?"

"I tink not;--no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it.
Adieu." And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after
an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that
Herr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for
business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by
his patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely
remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was
a "strong order."

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It
had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen
times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It
had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but
here the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written
five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again
he had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his
own carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool
might do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and
wide awake at every turn!

Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and
now he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew
the crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps
against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own
hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there
should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make
money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll
had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would
therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy
to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep
the secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would
curry favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was
his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been
his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of
peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of
what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the
knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be
suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little
bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his
breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he
would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money
for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he
would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that
a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not
exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he
had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone
since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on
Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one
merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the
burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into
the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of
certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security
could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do.
Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could
hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay
at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then
he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and
stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in
the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and,
if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He
was about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he
had fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It
can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps
she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had
received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had
also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of
his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now
she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on
her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been
detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had
cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had
at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of
its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be
made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think that
perhaps I was wrong yesterday."

"Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now."

"If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord
Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether
he does or not."

"What makes you think that, Marie?"

"I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there.
I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more."

"Was he uncivil to you?"

"O dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how.
I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him.
Papa, is there something going to happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other
man?"

"He is a penniless adventurer."

"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then
there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me
still if you would let him."

"Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?"

"Never, papa."

"Or heard from him?"

"Not a line."

"Then what makes you think he would marry you?"

"He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And
there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live
in Germany."

"We could do that just as well without your marrying."

"But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want
after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up
their noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else."

"He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you."

"He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's
anything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand.
He's as good as anybody else."

"It can't be done, Marie."

"Why can't it be done?"

"There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him?
And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than
marriage."

"You don't want me to sign the papers?"

"No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the
money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you,
and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not
let me find myself deceived by my daughter."

"I won't,--if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."

Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry.
"I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why
cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your
jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your
hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of
that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very
good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I
bid you."

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and
told her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see
Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's
house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously
taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his
hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from
his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion
with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted
when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry
questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she
had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special
description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil.
Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her
own presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. "I dare
say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," Marie said. "I am Marie
Melmotte."

At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so
before she replied. "Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you."

"Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is
better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in
the street."

"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better." Now Lady Carbury
had heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that "it was all
over" with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his
thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries,
that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a
ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the
very point of bursting. "Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before
a week is over." That was the information which had reached Lady
Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

"I want to see him," said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what
answer to make, was silent for a while. "I suppose he told you
everything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married?
I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming
and telling you."

"I thought it was all off," said Lady Carbury.

"I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was
very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but
perhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true."

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at
the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was
ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with
a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit
either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to
answer her roughly. "I am afraid," she said, "that it would not be
suitable."

"Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There
is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but
it is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great
deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come
and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I
should have thought it would be suitable."

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage
after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it
was true? "I understand that your papa is opposed to it," she said.

"Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give
up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can
dare to do it, why can't he?"

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it
impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she
should see Mr. Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him,
in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she
might not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her
life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not
only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to
endow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. If
the thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand
a year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix
had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not
be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because
the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in
which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a
heaven-sent comfort. "My son is up-stairs," she said. "I will go up
and speak to him."

"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him
everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to
me, I will be true to him."

"I couldn't go down to her," said Sir Felix, "with my face all in
this way."

"I don't think she would mind that."

"I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never
did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to
Liverpool."

"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to
a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is
very fond of you."

"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?" He would not go down to
see the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and
was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As
regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's
story. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach,
would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the
nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss
his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

"What shall I say to her?" asked his mother.

"She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might
send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again."

But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She
returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and
thinking what answer she would make. "Miss Melmotte," she said, "my
son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last
met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."

"That is his message;--is it?" Lady Carbury remained silent. "Then he
is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should
have loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will
think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not
run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed
of thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury."

"Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me."

"No;--no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as
you please, and I will try to forget him."

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going
round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way.
What should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she
endeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the
last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship
which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The
servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by
intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In
these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and
seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords,
she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She
had really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made
of the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the
clay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away
from her and had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her
father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious
of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They
would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other
city,--probably in some very distant part. But go where she might,
she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she
succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton
Street.




CHAPTER LXXXIII.

MELMOTTE AGAIN AT THE HOUSE.


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