CHAPTER LXIII.

MR. MELMOTTE ON THE DAY OF THE ELECTION.

No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large

as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the

ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known,

or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up

promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones,

now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds

had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from

the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation

as to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On

the Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting

from morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought

little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which

is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the

afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth,

and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six

o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be

withdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps

because no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and

strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died

away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

But Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close

consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their

Committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the

"Pulpit" of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair,

which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were

immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and

mentioned no details. Mr. Alf explained that this had been put in by

the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was

bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no

note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been

connected with the election.

One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the

most of it. "It's no more than we've all believed all along," said

the old gentleman, "and why are we to let a fellow like that get

the seat if we can keep him out?" He was of opinion that everything

should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as

public as possible,--so that there should be no opening for an

indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of

devices by which this might be effected. But the Committee generally

was averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as

well as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no

fraud,--or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of

fraud,--then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for

purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which

would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual

gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual

voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of

the rumours by Mr. Alf's Committee. In regard to other matters, they

who worked under the Committee were busy enough. The dinner to the

Emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether

they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to

Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining

all the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said

on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte,

but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal

venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City. At

twelve o'clock at night, when Mr. Alf's committee-room was being

closed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general

opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr. Alf.

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman

had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that

an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his

bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor,

which Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte had

used since he had been in Mr. Longestaffe's house for the work which

he did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and

often late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two

heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the

ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his

own purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house

had been made, Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were close friends.

Terms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no

cause for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two

gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr.

Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left

the house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never

enter that room. The servants were to regard Mr. Longestaffe quite

as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr.

Longestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of

the tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

Mr. Melmotte, on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting

at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle

of letters and another of small documents. From these, with very

little examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps

from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the

bits,--holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into

a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the

open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he

put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till

he swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own

drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr. Longestaffe's

table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and

then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then

knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the

bolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer,

drew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk,

rang the bell which was close to hand. The servant found him writing

letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was

ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of

newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the

paragraph alluding to himself in the "Pulpit," and read it without a

quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was

no one to see him now,--but he was acting under a resolve that at no

moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called

upon for words,--not even when the policemen with their first hints

of arrest should come upon him,--would he betray himself by the

working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from

his heart. He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of

shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall

Place. He thought that he would face the world better by walking

than if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the

carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an

hour for him if he was not there. He went along Bond Street and

Piccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross,

with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully

entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he

met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned

his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to

him. Of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for

the rumour. Even after the man had passed on he was careful to show

no displeasure on his face. He would take it all as it would come

and still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,--as long as the

police would allow him. He probably was not aware how very different

was the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the

India Office.

At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was

informed that everything was going on regularly. The electors

were balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the

understrappers,--there never was any excitement. The men looked

half-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they

ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came.

They certainly had not expected to see him there. "Has Lord Alfred

been here?" Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his

back to the empty grate. No,--Lord Alfred had not been there. "Nor

Mr. Grendall?" The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would

have asked for "his Secretary," and not for Mr. Grendall, but for

the rumours. It is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are

avoiding Charybdis. Mr. Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody

had been there. "In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I

suppose?" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior understrapper thought that

there was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham

should be sent away, and strolled out again on foot.

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The

place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested

election, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face

everybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he

was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward

and shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing

with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him.

He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph

in the "Pulpit" to which his name had not been attached; but he

spoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought

against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that

nothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them

here or elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the

electors of Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad

to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would

protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon

him. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to

regard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as

a matter of course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his

back to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he

looked forward to a triumphant return. But things had been said, and

published, which the excitement of an election could not justify,

and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he

made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded

by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an

Englishman and a Londoner.

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had

ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was

applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the "Breakfast

Table" who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to

the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper,

and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted

afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness,

that he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone

having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in

reputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. It was

while in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent

Garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had

gathered round him.

It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He

was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches.

His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he

feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown

that he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that

he would go boldly into the City,--to his own offices in Abchurch

Lane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be

expected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken

amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would

face them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch

Lane.

The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a

holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had

altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there,

and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. "Mr. Grendall

has not been here?" he asked. No; Mr. Grendall had not been there;

but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he

hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to

many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all.

Mr. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased,

and knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become

of the money which had so been raised. But he knew nothing of the

circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that

Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without

paying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe

and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without

danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together;

and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think,

and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old

friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe

as he did so.

"Ve didn't expect you here to-day," said the member for Staines.

"Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminster

while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the

letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?"

"Uncommon;--nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away,

Melmotte?"

"Because he's an ass and a cur," said Mr. Melmotte with an assumed

air of indignation. "Alf and his people had got hold of him. There

was ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the

invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to

come. I shall be even with him some of these days."

"Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?"

"Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?"

"There's ever so much been said," whispered Cohenlupe.

"Said;--yes," ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. "You're not such a

fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough

to believe, if you do."

"There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not

know," said Cohenlupe.

"Look you here, Cohenlupe,"--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to

a whisper,--"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual,

and say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon

us."

"Oh dear, there has indeed!"

"But any paper with my name to it will come right."

"That's nothing;--nothing at all," said Cohenlupe.

"And there is nothing;--nothing at all! I've bought some property and

have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for

it. There's no fraud in that."

"No, no,--nothing in that."

"You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the

bank now." Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low

in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great

man to the City.

Mr. Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank.

He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and

one for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which

kept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight

through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which

sat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug

before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened,--or as

nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of

his powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance

intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his

wont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the

clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw that it was

so;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to "put it

down."

"We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr. Melmotte."

"And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens that

when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to

be done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting;

but as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at

Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that

they say there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of."

"And the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager.

"Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than

anything that has been done for him yet." This was a brilliant flash

of imagination. "For a friend to dine with me every day, you know,

I should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself.

But then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't

have much to say for ourselves;--eh?" The manager acceded to this

proposition. "We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over

the way didn't come."

"The Lord Mayor, you mean."

"The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last

moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was

somehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on

without him." Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there

that day. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants.

"You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you

know." He had been in the habit of over-drawing on his private

account,--making arrangements with the manager. But now, in the

manager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account

for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the

£250 which he had received from Mr. Broune on account of the money

which Sir Felix had taken from Marie.

"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when

Melmotte had left the room.

"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. But the feeling

of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the

rumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte

would not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.