CHAPTER XXX.

MR. MELMOTTE'S PROMISE.

On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr. Alf's paper, the

"Evening Pulpit," a very remarkable article on the South Central

Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great

deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing

more remarkable than in this,--that it left on the mind of its reader

no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor

would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal

pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact,

or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde

of swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious,

suggestive, amusing, well-informed,--that in the "Evening Pulpit"

was a matter of course,--and, above all things, ironical. Next to

its omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to

the "Evening Pulpit." There was a little praise given, no doubt in

irony, to the duchesses who served Mr. Melmotte. There was a little

praise, given of course in irony, to Mr. Melmotte's Board of English

Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a

dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilising Mexico by joining

it to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the

matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity

to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself.

Then there was something said of the universality of Mr. Melmotte's

commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate

failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled

commercial splendour, no one could tell.

It was generally said at the clubs that Mr. Alf had written this

article himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men

possessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides

Pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this

last forty years, professed that he saw through the article. The

"Evening Pulpit" had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as

it could in denouncing Mr. Melmotte without incurring the danger of

an action for libel. Mr. Splinter thought that the thing was clever

but mean. These new publications generally were mean. Mr. Splinter

was constant in that opinion; but, putting the meanness aside,

he thought that the article was well done. According to his view

it was intended to expose Mr. Melmotte and the railway. But the

Paides Pallados generally did not agree with him. Under such an

interpretation, what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which

the writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another

was worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted

to men? Old Splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and

declared that there was not wit enough left now even among the Paides

Pallados to understand a shaft of irony. There could be no doubt,

however, at the time, that the world did not go with old Splinter,

and that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the

great railway enterprise.

Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the

railway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a

somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the

right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own

advantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might

become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life.

He was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was

a Director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the

great commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. And

he was a baronet. Very wild ideas occurred to her. Should she take

Mr. Alf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be

brought together what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte,

and Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come

and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she

could flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage

about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she

could construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her

hands? And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with

Marie, could not forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind

ranged still farther. Mr. Broune might help, and even Mr. Booker. To

such a one as Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of

the confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken

support of the Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in

a railway as to which Mr. Broune and Mr. Alf would combine in saying

that it was managed by "divinity"? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but

from day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself.

On the Sunday afternoon Mr. Booker called on her and talked to her

about the article. She did not say much to Mr. Booker as to her own

connection with Mr. Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was

essential in the present emergency. But she listened with all her

ears. It was Mr. Booker's idea that the man was going "to make a

spoon or spoil a horn." "You think him honest;--don't you?" asked

Lady Carbury. Mr. Booker smiled and hesitated. "Of course, I mean

honest as men can be in such very large transactions."

"Perhaps that is the best way of putting it," said Mr. Booker.

"If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity,

simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor

to his race by creating that belief?"

"At the expense of veracity?" suggested Mr. Booker.

"At the expense of anything?" rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. "One

cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule."

"You would do evil to produce good?" asked Mr. Booker.

"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living

creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think

of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without

endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly.

You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may

create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."

"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."

"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady

Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite

satisfied with herself as she picked them. "Did I hold your place,

Mr. Booker, in the literature of my country,--"

"I hold no place, Lady Carbury."

"Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you

are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my

periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great

a man and so great an object as this."

"I should be dismissed to-morrow," said Mr. Booker, getting up

and laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as

regarded Mr. Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that

could not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through

Mr. Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular

Tuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her

drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them.

She had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to

anybody had written to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her

poor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to

him, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham, telling him that

on a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so

kind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the

potentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee

with the purest satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did

for him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's

invitation.

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate

wing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their

dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's

engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the

utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "Pulpit." Her

friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness

of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte's

undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was

inaudible. "Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady.

The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was

hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr.

Melmotte's guests.

"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall

see," said Mr. Melmotte.

"I was one of the unfortunates," said Mr. Alf.

"I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room

you would have found me."

"Ah,--if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper,

carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so

effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

Lady Carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected

from this last introduction, tried another. "Mr. Melmotte," she said,

whispering to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr.

Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much

heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr.

Broune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There

is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And

they declare, you know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper

as she communicated the fact, "that his commercial articles are

gospel,--absolutely gospel." Then the two men were named to each

other, and Lady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing.

"Getting very hot," said Mr. Melmotte.

"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune.

"It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June."

"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was

over. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in

the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that

Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied

certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day.

Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left

the house he said it. "It was very good of you to ask me, Lady

Carbury;--very good." Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the

goodness was all on the other side. "And I came," continued Mr.

Melmotte, "because I had something particular to say. Otherwise

I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to

my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her

eyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped

them, put one upon his sleeve. "My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to

another man."

"You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?"

"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all.

You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our

Board."

"I did;--I did."

"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him

in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from

this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does

uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night,

ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.

Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man

that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey

him--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance

that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not

give his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered

in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr.

Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making

must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did

not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would

be absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was

an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated

the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed

Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of

them but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those

young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the

workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal

instincts. Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts,

so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world!

Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble

and disinterested.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house

of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt

the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that

preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should

threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his

wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of

course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once

effected? His daughter would return to him with a title, though

with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself

personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very

rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to

her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could

pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by

passing it over.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might

consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most

natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she

could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes.

His advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have

nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was

old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived

in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which,

whether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on

Mr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf. She had almost begun to think

that Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But

Mr. Broune was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article,

but would not be sympathetic as a friend. Mr. Broune had been very

courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had

almost feared that the "susceptible old goose" was going to be a

goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use

of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would

produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside

to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after

the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others were

gone she asked her daughter to leave them. "Hetta," she said, "I have

something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune." And so they were

left alone.

"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said smiling.

He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair

which she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed.

"I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a

wonderful man."

"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie,

I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no

reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little,

I said less."

"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest

smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified

in regarding you as a real friend."

"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back

again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord.

"Stupid old goose!" she said to herself. "And now to my story. You

know my boy, Felix?" The editor nodded his head. "He is engaged to

marry that man's daughter."

"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?" Then Lady Carbury nodded her head.

"Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever

produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."

"She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with

him,--as is he with her." She tried to tell her story truly, knowing

that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true

story;--but lying had become her nature. "Melmotte naturally wants

her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter

married Felix she should not have a penny."

"Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?"

"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the

object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take

it as we get it."

"He would be sure to make some such threat."

"Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people

are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I

must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist,

he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."

"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.

"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?"

"Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give

me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."

"He did make it."

"Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of

deceiving."

"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American

Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young

man who was altogether unconnected with him."

"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a

title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be

likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell

a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he

has no capital to go into such a business."

"No;--he has no capital."

"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a

promise as that."

"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?"

Mr. Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was

to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply.

She wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an

elopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time.

"Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared

to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do

you think he would be wrong?"

"That is a question very hard to answer."

"People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day

with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."

"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the

gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady

Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as

offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord

didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion."

"There would be nothing disgraceful."

"I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those

things a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I

think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance

afterwards,--I think he would."

"I am so glad to hear you say that."

"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be

placed on that promise of assistance."

"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you," said Lady

Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the

girl. "You have been so very kind." Then again she gave him her hand,

as though to bid him farewell for the night.

"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."