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 wanted

to see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether

he wanted to see Croll. "Is it anything special?" he asked. The

man thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared

his purpose of waiting when told that Mr. Melmotte was not as yet

dressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte

longed to know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even the

servant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to ask

a question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious.

"Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in

the study." But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any further

refreshment.

Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would

meet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well

that he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding

him wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will,

the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he

discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he

could not fly. And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he

would do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man

come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner

or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Croll

as well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with a

razor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an

end to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be

shown up into his room.

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very

long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was

still upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was

fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When

the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though

to 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 possession

of Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the

bag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the

bag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in

his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been

forged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll

should be ignorant of what had been done. "Well, Croll," he said

with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" He was

pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain

himself 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's

face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.

[Illustration: "He thought I had better bring these back to you."]

"Eh!" repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from

all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not

assume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen

Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered

the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged

documents. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the

most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature

such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

"Mr. Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one signature

was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said

I'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 had

resolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired

to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!

Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking

in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him

in forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to

such an occasion. "It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte," said Croll.

Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. "I vill not be back in the

Lane, 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 after

an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that

Herr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for

business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by

his patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely

remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was

a "strong order."

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It

had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen

times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It

had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but

here the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written

five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again

he had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his

own carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool

might do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and

wide awake at every turn!

Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and

now he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew

the crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps

against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own

hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there

should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make

money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll

had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would

therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy

to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep

the secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would

curry 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 was

his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been

his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of

peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of

what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the

knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be

suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little

bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his

breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he

would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money

for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he

would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that

a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not

exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he

had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone

since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on

Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one

merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the

burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into

the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of

certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security

could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do.

Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could

hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay

at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then

he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and

stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in

the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and,

if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He

was about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he

had fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It

can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps

she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had

received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had

also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of

his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now

she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on

her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been

detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had

cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had

at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of

its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be

made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think that

perhaps 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 Lord

Nidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether

he 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 other

man?"

"He is a penniless adventurer."

"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then

there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me

still 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. And

there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live

in 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 want

after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up

their 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's

anything 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 than

marriage."

"You don't want me to sign the papers?"

"No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the

money 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 not

let 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. Why

cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your

jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your

hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of

that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very

good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I

bid you."

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and

told her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see

Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's

house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously

taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his

hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from

his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion

with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted

when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry

questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she

had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special

description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil.

Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her

own presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. "I dare

say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury," Marie said. "I am Marie

Melmotte."

At first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so

before she replied. "Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you."

"Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is

better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in

the street."

"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better." Now Lady Carbury

had heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that "it was all

over" with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his

thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries,

that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a

ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the

very point of bursting. "Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before

a week is over." That was the information which had reached Lady

Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

"I want to see him," said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what

answer to make, was silent for a while. "I suppose he told you

everything;--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 coming

and 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 was

very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but

perhaps 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 at

the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was

ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with

a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit

either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to

answer her roughly. "I am afraid," she said, "that it would not be

suitable."

"Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There

is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but

it is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great

deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come

and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I

should have thought it would be suitable."

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage

after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it

was 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 give

up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can

dare to do it, why can't he?"

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it

impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she

should 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 she

might not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her

life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not

only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to

endow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. If

the thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand

a year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix

had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not

be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because

the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in

which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a

heaven-sent comfort. "My son is up-stairs," she said. "I will go up

and speak to him."

"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him

everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to

me, I will be true to him."

"I couldn't go down to her," said Sir Felix, "with my face all in

this way."

"I don't think she would mind that."

"I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never

did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to

Liverpool."

"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to

a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is

very fond of you."

"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?" He would not go down to

see the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and

was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As

regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's

story. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach,

would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the

nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss

his 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 might

send 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. She

returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and

thinking what answer she would make. "Miss Melmotte," she said, "my

son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last

met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance."

"That is his message;--is it?" Lady Carbury remained silent. "Then he

is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should

have loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will

think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not

run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed

of 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 as

you please, and I will try to forget him."

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going

round 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 she

endeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the

last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship

which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The

servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by

intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In

these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and

seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords,

she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She

had really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made

of the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the

clay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away

from her and had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her

father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious

of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They

would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other

city,--probably in some very distant part. But go where she might,

she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she

succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton

Street.