CHAPTER LXVIII.

MISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE.

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to

be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had

come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very

moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman

whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her

had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!

Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first

meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had

thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and

affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had

therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed

so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true,

and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that

it would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love.

And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base,

and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no

excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she

had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and

sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it.

She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew

also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer

should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did

not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present

she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give

herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been

told her.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken

to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and

she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told

in a very few words--"Everything is over!" But it had to be told.

"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said to

her mother at breakfast.

"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the

Melmottes?"

"I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a

message to take to her,--from Felix."

"A message--from Felix."

"It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over.

Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They

could never be married now;--could they, mamma?"

The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable.

She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did

quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should

he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte

should forgive such offence as had now been committed. "It is out of

the question," she said. "That, like everything else with us, has

been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no

obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much

doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go

alone, you know," Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not

at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over

Oxford Street.

So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had

heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration

of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the

house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she

hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was

wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths

and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up

with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And

amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member

of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House.

Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a

short time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that

he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster.

At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere.

It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this

moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having just

propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made

so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had

entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of

money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte

was there. "Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward,

and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present."

"Oh,--I remember now," said Hetta.

"May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?" At the

present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his

daughter.

"I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.

"Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?" There

was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully

on Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. "Oh;--Sir Felix's

sister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with

my daughter?" The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen

around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of

the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very

simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been

something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had

felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must

be all over. "I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, looking

at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with

his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing

how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was

silent. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and

double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----,

infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a

written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you

here. How am I to know what you are really after?"

"I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said,

trembling with anger and fear. "I was speaking to your daughter at

your party."

"Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is

one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be

suspicious, Miss Carbury." Here was one who had spent his life in

lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the

atrocity of a man who had lied to him! "You are not plotting another

journey to Liverpool;--are you?" To this Hetta could make no answer.

The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how

to give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her

across to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his

side. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.

"If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It

is only that there may no longer be any doubt."

"You can say it all before me."

"No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it

for me. If you please, I think I will go home now."

But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a

subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte

himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there

was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed

interview. "Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she's

such a fool as to try that kind of thing again." Then the door in

Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found

herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow

Melmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she

thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie

crept into the room. "Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of

you,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you

would love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down by

the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.

"Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come."

"Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me."

To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. "We are at

daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as

though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would

you?" Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not

fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her

mother in an affair of the same kind. "What does he say, dear?"

Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those

were told, there was nothing more to be said. "It must all be over,

Miss Melmotte."

"Is that his message, Miss Carbury?" Hetta nodded her head. "Is that

all?"

"What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you

word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I

have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of

his own;--nothing at all."

"But I have," said Marie with eagerness.

"But your father--"

"It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it

to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?" "I think

it is impossible."

"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one

hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything

impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that.

That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answer

the question. "You must know about your brother. Don't you know

whether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me."

Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"

"Miss Melmotte--" began poor Hetta very slowly.

"Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don't

even know what your name is."

"My name is--Hetta."

"Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have

no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell

anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my

mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so." All this

she whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. "And papa

is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." The new friend, round

whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. "But I

never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always

turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a

friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my

lover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"

"I don't know what I am to say," ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs.

Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided,

there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was

melted with sympathy.

"I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you," said

Marie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs,

and made no reply to this. "I suppose you won't tell me about

yourself."

"I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort."

"He will not try again, you think?"

"I am sure he will not."

"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why should

not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a

right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will

venture if he will."

It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted

to falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr. Melmotte had dared to

suppose that she could be capable. "I cannot listen to it. Indeed I

cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--"

"Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true."

"It is true," said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl

a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw

away from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on

Hetta's waist. "Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask

me for the truth."

"Yes; I did."

"Men are not, I think, like girls."

"I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, what

brutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why

should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me.

Did he never love me,--once?"

Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as

Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. "It is better that you

should think of him no more."

"Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and

agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told

to think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant

or a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of

him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds

that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."

"You should try to forgive him, Marie."

"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell

him that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever

meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I

could,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell

you to say that he did not love me?"

"I wish I had not come," said Hetta.

"I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of

course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he

did not love me?"

"No;--he did not say that."

"Then how do you know? What did he say?"

"That it was all over."

"Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?"

"I am sure."

"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted

liar, and that I trample him under my foot." Marie as she said this

thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in

truth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might

hear her. "I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is

the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles

me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me,

and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the

time;--that I can't bear." Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed

her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.

Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone,

Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into

Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. "You can tell

papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases." She

spoke in French and very rapidly.

On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted.

"Your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear that you have

thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very

good young man."

"Yes," continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. "I'll

marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse than

all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the

crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that

he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world.

But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale

repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And then, having thus

entrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.