CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

THE INQUEST.

Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the

evening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to

lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead.

Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance

had busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were

made instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale

himself had assisted them in their departure; and the German, with

the poor woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed

according to Melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the

carriage which took the mother and the daughter. They did not start

till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment

would fain have been allowed to rest one other night in Bruton

Street. But Lord Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie

understand that the inquest would be held early on the following

morning, and Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her

point. So the poor woman was taken away from Mr. Longestaffe's

residence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in

Grosvenor Square, which she had not visited since the night on which

she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China.

On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest

doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The

servants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them,

learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him

during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had

undoubtedly been poisoned by prussic acid. It was also proved that he

had been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the

clerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to

testify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was

there any doubt as to the cause.

In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the

unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance,

and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved

condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment.

Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as

in that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried

like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the

poor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should

be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally

guided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the

poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent

life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself

specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to

have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been

at last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from

which he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the

benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had

deserted her? Who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the

once beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might

as well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon

earth? Such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane,

though no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct

up to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. But let

a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his

side--a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late

iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has

been able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a

wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had

taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute

who had got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and had

disgraced the House by being drunk there,--and, of course, he will

not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or

whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed

themselves, with their wits about them. Just at this moment there was

a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his

having tumbled over poor Mr. Beauclerk in the House of Commons as

to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of

the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible

for his actions when he took the poison. He was _felo de se_, and

therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But it may

be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as

mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers

of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt

himself constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew

all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen.

The summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him.

There were some, among them Croll and Mr. Brehgert, who absolutely

knew that he had committed forgery. He had no money for the

Longestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at once.

He had assured himself long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not

very long ago,--that he would brave it all like a man. But we none

of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs.

Melmotte's back had been so utterly crushed that I almost think that

he was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity.

But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his

name was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing

took place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made

to the manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious.

Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other

districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned

against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old

stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful

things. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with

affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his

ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while

to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had

been done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone

alone that spoke of a monument.

Mr. Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of

it a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had

been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to

town; and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the

honour of encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much

for Mr. Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was

becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by

their connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could

not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying

the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally

clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to

do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat

smoking upon the stool in Mr. Squercum's office, where he now passed

a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle

of ill-usage.

"By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor.

There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"

Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what

pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made

inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must

be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it

impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. "They say that the things

in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all

that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were

a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them," said Squercum.

"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever

hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all

done without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a

thing was ever known before, since properties were properties." Then

he uttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to

whom he declared his intention of "making it very hot for them."

It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the

management of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively

into the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many

dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps

of as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient

man. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana

Longestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been

particularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence

of Mr. Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had lately lived and

had died. The dead man's papers were still there,--deeds, documents,

and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy;--and these could

not be removed quite at once. "Mr. Brehgert must of course have

access to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely

necessary," said Mr. Longestaffe in answer to a message which

was brought to him; "but he will of course see the expediency of

relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible." But he soon

found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor,

especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing

after the injuries he had received.

All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr.

Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of £300 due to him

for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became

known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty

per cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing

by Melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very

comfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the

parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied

before the father took anything. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during

these weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and

his own family, the house in London should not only not be kept

up, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings,

and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number,

and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady

Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her

daughters. "I have suffered great wrongs," said Mr. Longestaffe, "but

I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children.

If our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might

probably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my

daughters I expect cheerful obedience." From what incidents of his

past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it might be

difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the

time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects,

and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. I think

the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but she said not a

word even about that.

But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story

are anticipated. Mr. Longestaffe had remained in London actually over

the 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of

the year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been

made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and absolutely

formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the

abomination of his religion,--so that on one occasion he even

condescended to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton

Street. This, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the

Melmotte affairs, when Mr. Longestaffe's heart had been softened

by that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr. Brehgert came,

and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two

gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old

port wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the

connection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the

young lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant

bridegroom. But in this evening Mr. Brehgert, who was by no means a

coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully

fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe.

The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to

his own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which

Mr. Longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy

way, as though it did not sit very near his heart. "Of course there's

a difference between me and you," he said. Mr. Longestaffe bowed his

head graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very

wide difference. "In our affairs," continued Brehgert, "we expect

gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in

your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money."

"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard."

"I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he

took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in

London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of

it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely."

"I suppose so."

"It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as

much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside

of our house. The long and the short of it is that I shall lose

something about sixty thousand pounds."

"That's a large sum of money."

"Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my

correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to

point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told

you."

This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr.

Longestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most

deserving of censure; but Mr. Longestaffe did not know how to

pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at

the present time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the

arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to

quarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal

dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the

fact.

"It was so," said Brehgert.

"No doubt;"--and Mr. Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.

"Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good

enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would

maintain a second house when we should be married."

"It was impossible," said Mr. Longestaffe,--meaning to assert that

such hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question.

"It would have been quite possible as things were when that

proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which

I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend,

I found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present,

and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."

"There were other reasons," muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed

voice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to

convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence.

"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe

did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not

the slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine

herself almost exclusively to that reason."

"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert; why mention this now? The

subject is painful."

"Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because

I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it

is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman."

Mr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then

bowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could

from so dubious an oracle. "I am sure," continued Brehgert, "that I

behaved like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter

should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself."

"Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended."

"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend."

Finishing the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to

take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use

all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the

Melmotte affairs.

As soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe opened the door and walked

about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to

cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told

himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar

had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how

little grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had conferred

upon him by asking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not

all Jews necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware

that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to

quarrel with Mr. Brehgert.