CHAPTER L.

THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.

Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also

the faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of

pleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door

locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having

more than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed

to be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that American

clergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and

whether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon

thought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and

that the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistress

very often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was

true to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go without

food in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by

the use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at the

railway-station.

At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his

ten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller

luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and

nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them

their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They

had quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by

Marie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very

bad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement

was so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their

seats without any impediment,--and then they were off.

During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie

gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the

things she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale;--especially

when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no

token of love;--"pas un baiser!" Didon suggested that such was the

way with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale,

but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from

devoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was

ugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. "Bah!"

exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations

should prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord

Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir

Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would

never have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but

her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had

thought that New York, with £50 and other perquisites in hand, might

offer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could

hardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress.

Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was running

away,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would

be with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing for

marquises.

As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still

be very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their

destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station

should know that they were going on board the packet for New York.

They had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and

other things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they

were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine,

Passenger to Liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearly

as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety

would not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was

sure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe

on board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street,

striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and

loss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath

the bedclothes.

When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat

for a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any

hurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter

offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages,

keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the

carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot

on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat,

"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte." Marie was struck dumb, but said

nothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young

lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine,

her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They

knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them

to pass on to their cab?

[Illustration: "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."]

But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to

their cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not

seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the

distance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present

connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very

much at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at

once gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.

"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte,"

said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant,

Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte." Marie declared that

she spoke French. "And English too," said the gentleman. "I think you

had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany

you."

"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up

her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position

and of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to

Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their

luggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing

against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was

it to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit

himself to reply in the same language. "You had better trust yourself

to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.

"But why?" demanded Marie.

Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "A cheque has been

changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father

will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we

may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the

cheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go

on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be

subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided."

There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well

doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more

to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the

gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not

to have been punished with special severity in that they had injured

humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced.

Who is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their

old interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie,

when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr.

Scudamore.

When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further

opposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she

sat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her

own behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "Who was going to stop

her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did

anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody

did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She

would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug the rope of

her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the

station. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another

document which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it

be wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her

within the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that

Didon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only

the more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she

pleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she

addressed herself in what little English she could command to

half-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene.

They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay.

She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "But the

box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in

her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself

in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on

to the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of

our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New

York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us

to enquire.

Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved

himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on

board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense,

looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been

carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape.

And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still

hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched

a marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She

would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she

see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings

when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!

But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true

to him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before,

and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mind

from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than

constancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage

and to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her

present disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her

father? But how then would it be with poor Felix? "After all I don't

know that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over it

all.

The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though

she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a

little advice. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast

down."

"Oh, I won't," she answered. "I don't mean."

"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."

"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow

if I had the chance." The gentleman looked at her, not having

expected so much determination. "I would. Why is a girl to be made

to marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean

saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa

never says anything about it."

"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."

"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because

papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright

mean to send and have me taken up before all the people."

"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."

"Of course I wouldn't," said Marie.

The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the

journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte

carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box

was to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor

Square might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square,

of course, very soon knew all about it. "And are you to come?" Marie

asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had

been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. "All the people will wonder

who you are," said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that

Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much

suffering.

When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's

room,--and there she found her father, alone. "This is your game, is

it?" said he, looking down at her.

"Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it."

"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?" To this she

vouchsafed no reply. "As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was

going with you?"

"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."

"Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little

idiot."

"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so."

"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" Then she opened her

eyes and looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's

house in Welbeck Street."

"I don't believe it, papa."

"You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to New

York, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed

behind, I think I'd have let you go."

"I'm sure he didn't stay behind."

"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London

at this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?"

"She's gone on board the ship."

"And where is the money you took from your mother?" Marie was silent.

"Who got the cheque changed?"

"Didon did."

"And has she got the money?"

"No, papa."

"Have you got it?"

"No, papa."

"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?"

"Yes, papa."

"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."

"Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it.

I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back

again."

"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go

to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to

marry him again if I don't prosecute him?" Marie considered. "Unless

you do that I shall go to a magistrate at once."

"I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. I

gave it to him."

"Will you promise me?"

"No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only

break it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good

of all the money if people don't have what they like?"

"All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here," and

he took her by the arm. "I've been very good to you. You've had

your share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses,

bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else." He

held her very hard and shook her as he spoke.

"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't

care a straw about bracelets and brooches."

"What do you care for?"

"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.

"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion.

You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something

for me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If you

weren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than

you do."

"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy."

"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale

you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you."

"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she

cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let

the girl for one minute out of her presence.

The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady

with whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden

till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the

breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless.

During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the

club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom,

indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they

been said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that

Grendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing

loo,--as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he

ended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club.

They had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew

nothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that

perhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock

the party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the

streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his

pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there

he left it.

There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix

wandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was

nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his

affairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of

affliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction

by producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is

conscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice

thick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor

oblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and

losing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule

to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman,

got no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better do

with himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of

his ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he

thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last,

as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call

to mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he had

wandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where

he was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled

half down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes,

and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with

him as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where he

lived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of

getting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.

Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street.

He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he was

supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At

last it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than

once, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not

probably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the

morning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a

sorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such

a condition. "Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.

"It'sh all up," he said, stumbling in.

"What has happened, Felix?"

"Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush." Drunk

as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old shap" was fast

asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and

Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews.

"Bettersh go to bed." And so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, the

wretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his

boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own

room, a miserable woman.