CHAPTER LXXXII.
MARIE'S PERSEVERANCE.
Very early the next morning, very early that is for London life,Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wantedto see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whetherhe wanted to see Croll. "Is it anything special?" he asked. Theman thought that it was something special, as Croll had declaredhis purpose of waiting when told that Mr. Melmotte was not as yetdressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmottelonged to know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even theservant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to aska question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious."Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something inthe study." But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any furtherrefreshment.
Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he wouldmeet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be wellthat he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, biddinghim wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will,the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though hediscussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that hecould not fly. And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly hewould do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the mancome with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooneror later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Crollas well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with arazor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put anend to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might beshown up into his room.
The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be verylong. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather wasstill upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He wasfighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. Whenthe knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as thoughto 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 possessionof Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got thebag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that thebag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, inhis own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had beenforged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Crollshould be ignorant of what had been done. "Well, Croll," he saidwith an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" He waspale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrainhimself 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'sface, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.
"He thought I had better bring these back to you."]
"Eh!" repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself fromall coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could notassume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seenCroll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discoveredthe forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forgeddocuments. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived themost good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-naturesuch as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.
"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signaturewas wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I saidI'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 hadresolved together that they would not expose him? He had desiredto get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speakingin a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected himin forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate tosuch an occasion. "It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll.Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. "I vill not be back in theLane, 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 afteran intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine thatHerr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity forbusiness to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than byhis patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merelyremarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over wasa "strong order."
Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. Ithad been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozentimes, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. Ithad been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--buthere the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had writtenfive times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Againhe had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by hisown carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any foolmight do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive andwide awake at every turn!
Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, andnow he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knewthe crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal stepsagainst him they would not have returned the forgeries to his ownhands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless thereshould arise some most improbable emergency in which he might makemoney by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Crollhad signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and wouldtherefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemyto his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keepthe secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he wouldcurry 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 washis own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had beenhis own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose ofpeculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud ofwhat he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed theknowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must besuppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the littlebag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate hisbreakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.
When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which hewould pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the moneyfor Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which hewould explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact thata little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could notexactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For hehad resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gonesince he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame onCohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of onemerchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear theburden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going intothe City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter ofcertainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal securitycould hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do.Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He couldhardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stayat home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and thenhe would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, andstand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible inthe lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and,if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. Hewas about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that hehad fallen like a man.
About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. Itcan hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhapsshe was
the only person who in the whole course of his career hadreceived indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he hadalso often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods ofhis opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Nowshe had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy onher part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already beendetected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever hadcause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He hadat any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time ofits occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should bemade, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.
"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think thatperhaps 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 LordNidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whetherhe 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 otherman?"
"He is a penniless adventurer."
"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and thenthere would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry mestill 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. Andthere would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and livein 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 wantafter all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned uptheir 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'sanything 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 thanmarriage."
"You don't want me to sign the papers?"
"No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that themoney 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 notlet 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. Whycannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about yourjewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in yourhand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think ofthat young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are verygood, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as Ibid you."
That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury andtold her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to seeSir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother'shouse had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiouslytaken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached hishands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed fromhis face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertionwith which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflictedwhen they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundryquestions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom shehad heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no specialdescription, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil.Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into herown presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. "I daresay you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," Marie said. "I am MarieMelmotte."
At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did sobefore she replied. "Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you."
"Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he isbetter. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man inthe street."
"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better." Now Lady Carburyhad heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that "it was allover" with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, histhorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries,that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him aruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on thevery point of bursting. "Everybody says that he'll be in gaol beforea week is over." That was the information which had reached LadyCarbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.
"I want to see him," said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing whatanswer to make, was silent for a while. "I suppose he told youeverything;--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 comingand 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 wasvery good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; butperhaps 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 atthe moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father wasruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so witha considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little crediteither for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling toanswer her roughly. "I am afraid," she said, "that it would not besuitable."
"Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. Thereis enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--butit is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a greatdeal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to comeand tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and Ishould have thought it would be suitable."
It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriageafter all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether itwas 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 giveup the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I candare to do it, why can't he?"
Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found itimpossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that sheshould 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 shemight not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of herlife, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was notonly willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and toendow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. Ifthe thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousanda year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felixhad already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would notbe justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes becausethe Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him inwhich he might live with comparative safety would now be to her aheaven-sent comfort. "My son is up-stairs," she said. "I will go upand speak to him."
"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive himeverything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true tome, I will be true to him."
"I couldn't go down to he
r," said Sir Felix, "with my face all inthis way."
"I don't think she would mind that."
"I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I neverdid believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go toLiverpool."
"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out toa certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she isvery fond of you."
"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?" He would not go down tosee the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, andwas ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. Asregarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie'sstory. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach,would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas thenuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kisshis 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 mightsend 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. Shereturned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, andthinking what answer she would make. "Miss Melmotte," she said, "myson feels that everything has been so changed since he and you lastmet, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."
"That is his message;--is it?" Lady Carbury remained silent. "Then heis indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I shouldhave loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you willthink that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should notrun after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamedof 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 asyou please, and I will try to forget him."
Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, goinground 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 sheendeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for thelast year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardshipwhich she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. Theservitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned byintercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. Inthese days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, andseen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords,she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. Shehad really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was madeof the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as theclay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned awayfrom her and had refused her love!
She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to herfather. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been consciousof their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. Theywould again be driven to pack up and move and seek some othercity,--probably in some very distant part. But go where she might,she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution shesucceeded in forming before she re-entered the house in BrutonStreet.
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