CHAPTER LII.

THE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE.

Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury

in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother

crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast

asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was

one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head

to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort

anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to

soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay

there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the

solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to

the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and

brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he

did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements

for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had

absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The

details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would

start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find

out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility

would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he

had lost all his money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to

assist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so

cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember

something, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a

conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he

summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself

again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had

attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had

failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his

clothes! All his things were at the club;--or he thought that they

were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to

carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If

ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely

the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to

him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The

death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he

appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There

must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched

woman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. As regarded her son

himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What

might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had

not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known

that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night,

and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with

the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money.

She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two

days preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own

daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had

not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She

had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before

felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns

which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly.

He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all

his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what

further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there

was instant need for some story. "Mary says that Felix came back this

morning, and that he has not gone at all," Hetta exclaimed. The poor

woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her

daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk

at six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. "Yes; he has

come back," said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. "It

was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken

through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After

that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an

hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside,

determined that he should speak to her.

"Felix," she said,--"speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake."

He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself,

further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is

near six o'clock."

"All right," he said at last.

"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be

told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust

your mother."

"I am so sick, mother."

"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come

of it all? Where are your things?"

"At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to

me." Sam was the page.

"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this.

What has been done?"

"It hasn't come off."

"But how has it not come off?"

"I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?"

"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had

discovered it."

"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I

don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd

rather stay here."

"You must have something to eat, Felix."

"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so

faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't

talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy,

I'll tell you all about it then."

"Where is the money, Felix?"

"I paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to his

head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to

be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was

to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and

invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him

soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he

did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.

"Yes, my dear."

"Had you not better send for a doctor?"

"No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow."

"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me

everything."

"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. "Don't ask.

What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There

is nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined."

"Has he done anything, mamma?"

"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He

tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much

better it would be to be childless!"

"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and

throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "Mamma, say

that you do not mean me."

"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless."

"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try

to be a comfort to you?"

"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who

can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and

a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and

gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will

not help me in my trouble."

"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"

"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call

love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and

a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one

effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad."

"I have never said so."

"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what

you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to

sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again

went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right

that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be

right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to

her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did

in truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew,

all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother

had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew

also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such

a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she

could have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous

of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for

her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she

left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's

treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could

doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets

for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give

herself into the arms of a man she did not love.

[Illustration: "Can I marry the man I do not love?"]

"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother.

She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had

been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him

from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been

possible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring

himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. "It

didn't come off," he said, "and of course that knocked me off my

legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A

fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the

club,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more.

And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the

ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30

in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I

haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing

of Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from

Melmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could

not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement,

but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach

her ears sooner or later.

That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Broune called in Welbeck

Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for

a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his

newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from

accepting his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached

to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of

real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to

her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to

him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even

a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he

hold her hand. As for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than

of kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that

worried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the

perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding

weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed.

And he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this

fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man

snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own

virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew

his good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here,

how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the

country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand

truth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery,

and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost

made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Of nothing was Mr. Broune more

certain than that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to

the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. "The world of

London generally knows what it is about," said Mr. Broune, "and the

London world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to

say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not

going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and

genius, and Alf will get the worst of it." Under such teaching as

this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alf.

Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also

Mr. Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be

in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at

once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she

told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had

already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and

Sir Felix was not there."

"He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all

day. Did she go?"

"So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer

of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without

letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that

her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her."

"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start,"

said Lady Carbury.

"Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to

New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything

about money?"

"What money?"

"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had

taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no

time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would

do it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it

should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit." This Mr.

Broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.

It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor,

as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any

money. What did Mr. Broune mean by a large sum? "That would be

dreadful," she said.

"Had you not better ask him about it?"

Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to

get a word of truth from her son. "What do you mean by a large sum?"

"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."

"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came

out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by

her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs

from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present

moment.

"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury." Lady Carbury thought that she

was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. "You must put a

stop to this."

"But how?"

"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must

be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money

he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That

must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do

not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be

off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell

you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early

to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you." And so he hurried off.

Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put

into Mr. Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she

had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that

Mr. Melmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of

this from Miss Melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance

due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last

confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly

true; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not

justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.