CHAPTER L.
THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.
Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did alsothe faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full ofpleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her doorlocked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--havingmore than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposedto be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that Americanclergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, andwhether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didonthought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, andthat the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistressvery often during the night for what she called nonsense; but wastrue to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go withoutfood in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised bythe use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at therailway-station.
At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having histen pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smallerluggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them andnothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave themtheir tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. Theyhad quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken byMarie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some verybad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitementwas so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took theirseats without any impediment,--and then they were off.
During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Mariegabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all thethings she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale;--especiallywhen, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her notoken of love;--"pas un baiser!" Didon suggested that such was theway with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale,but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, fromdevoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale wasugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. "Bah!"exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerationsshould prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that LordNidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas SirFelix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, wouldnever have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, buther mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt hadthought that New York, with L50 and other perquisites in hand, mightoffer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now couldhardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress.Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was runningaway,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover wouldbe with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing formarquises.
As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must stillbe very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once theirdestination on the platform,--so that every one about the stationshould know that they were going on board the packet for New York.They had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes andother things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till theywere in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine,Passenger to Liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearlyas big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxietywould not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie wassure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safeon board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street,striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation andloss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneaththe bedclothes.
When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women satfor a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by anyhurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porteroffered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages,keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left thecarriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her footon the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat,"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte." Marie was struck dumb, but saidnothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the younglady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine,her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? Theyknew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow themto pass on to their cab?
"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."]
But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on totheir cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did notseem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in thedistance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at presentconnect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time verymuch at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon atonce gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.
"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte,"said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant,Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte." Marie declared thatshe spoke French. "And English too," said the gentleman. "I think youhad better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompanyyou."
"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking upher courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own positionand of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come toLiverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with theirluggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothingagainst the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What wasit to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?
The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commithimself to reply in the same language. "You had better trust yourselfto me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.
"But why?" demanded Marie.
Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "A cheque has beenchanged which you took from your father's house. No doubt your fatherwill pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that wemay bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of thecheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you goon board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall besubjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided."
There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be welldoubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added moreto the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether thegentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought notto have been punished with special severity in that they had injuredhumanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced.Who is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all theirold interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie,when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr.Scudamore.
When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no furtheropposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, shesat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on herown behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "Who was going to stopher? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Didanybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybodydid, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. Shewould go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug the rope ofher box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of thestation. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at anotherdocument which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should itbe wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought herwithin the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested thatDidon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured onlythe more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever shepleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then sheaddressed herself in what little English she could command tohalf-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene.They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay.She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "But thebox in her hand is mine," sa
id Marie, not forgetting her trinkets inher misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herselfin the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted onto the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out ofour story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as NewYork, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to usto enquire.
Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had provedhimself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting onboard the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense,looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have beencarried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape.And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may stillhope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretcheda marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. Shewould have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should shesee her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelingswhen he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be trueto him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before,and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mindfrom time to time, whether one course might not be better even thanconstancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriageand to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to herpresent disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for herfather? But how then would it be with poor Felix? "After all I don'tknow that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over itall.
The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as thoughshe were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her alittle advice. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be castdown."
"Oh, I won't," she answered. "I don't mean."
"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."
"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrowif I had the chance." The gentleman looked at her, not havingexpected so much determination. "I would. Why is a girl to be madeto marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very meansaying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papanever says anything about it."
"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."
"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's becausepapa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downrightmean to send and have me taken up before all the people."
"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."
"Of course I wouldn't," said Marie.
The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on thejourney, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmottecarriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the boxwas to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that GrosvenorSquare might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square,of course, very soon knew all about it. "And are you to come?" Marieasked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he hadbeen requested to see Miss Melmotte home. "All the people will wonderwho you are," said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought thatMiss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without muchsuffering.
When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother'sroom,--and there she found her father, alone. "This is your game, isit?" said he, looking down at her.
"Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it."
"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?" To this shevouchsafed no reply. "As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who wasgoing with you?"
"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."
"Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you littleidiot."
"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so."
"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" Then she opened hereyes and looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother'shouse in Welbeck Street."
"I don't believe it, papa."
"You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to NewYork, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayedbehind, I think I'd have let you go."
"I'm sure he didn't stay behind."
"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in Londonat this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?"
"She's gone on board the ship."
"And where is the money you took from your mother?" Marie was silent."Who got the cheque changed?"
"Didon did."
"And has she got the money?"
"No, papa."
"Have you got it?"
"No, papa."
"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?"
"Yes, papa."
"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."
"Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it.I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you backagain."
"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't goto Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt tomarry him again if I don't prosecute him?" Marie considered. "Unlessyou do that I shall go to a magistrate at once."
"I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. Igave it to him."
"Will you promise me?"
"No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should onlybreak it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the goodof all the money if people don't have what they like?"
"All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here," andhe took her by the arm. "I've been very good to you. You've hadyour share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses,bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else." Heheld her very hard and shook her as he spoke.
"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don'tcare a straw about bracelets and brooches."
"What do you care for?"
"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.
"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion.You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do somethingfor me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If youweren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more thanyou do."
"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy."
"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdaleyou'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you."
"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till shecried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to letthe girl for one minute out of her presence.
The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the ladywith whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargardentill four in the morning and had then left the club, on thebreaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless.During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at theclub, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom,indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had theybeen said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared thatGrendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playingloo,--as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and heended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club.They had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knewnothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion thatperhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clockthe party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into thestreets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in hispocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and therehe left it.
There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felixwandering about the streets of London that night. Though he wasnearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of hisaffairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst ofaffliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes afflictionby
producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which isconscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voicethick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth noroblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street andlosing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridiculeto every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman,got no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better dowith himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold ofhis ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then hethought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last,as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to callto mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he hadwandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know wherehe was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbledhalf down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes,and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back withhim as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where helived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose ofgetting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.
Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street.He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he wassupposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. Atlast it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more thanonce, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will notprobably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in themorning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that asorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in sucha condition. "Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.
"It'sh all up," he said, stumbling in.
"What has happened, Felix?"
"Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush." Drunkas he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old shap" was fastasleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; andMarie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews."Bettersh go to bed." And so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, thewretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and hisboots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her ownroom, a miserable woman.
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