CHAPTER LXIX.

MELMOTTE IN PARLIAMENT.

Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that

day,--good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him

it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which

Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing

to him what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could

now be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for

anger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so

hurried affairs that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been

secured. Now there might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly

of his girl and the villany of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once

the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he

might almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved

against him,--which might come to certain proof in less august

circumstances,--matters would hardly be pressed against a Member for

Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of

Auld Reekie! So many persons would then be concerned! Of course his

vexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir

Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be

seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. But he had

not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord

Nidderdale.

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the

manner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put

forward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of

fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had

been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were

returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be

made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was

returned,--but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a

sudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become

ashamed of their man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the

House? But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already

springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become

as it were a Conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be

the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and

old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master,

whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can

only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still.

The new farthing newspaper, "The Mob," was already putting Melmotte

forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his

commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs

is a valid defence for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he

may exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged

by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty

to a few negroes. "The Mob" thought that a good deal should be

overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great

designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. I do not know

that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the

ingenious and courageous writer in "The Mob;" but in practice it has

commanded the assent of many intelligent minds.

Mr. Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before

that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase

of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the

unfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter

from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary

way in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said

that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of

Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things

should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make

themselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible

to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this

would suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake

Melmotte would raise the money. If it were raised there would be

no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly

Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested

their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various

excuses for themselves. It would have been useless for them to

summon Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that

Dolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves,--as a

suggestion,--and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them with

Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,--as they believed,--with

other papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer?

But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of

Longestaffe senior. But if the money could be paid, that would set

everything right. Squercum evidently thought that the money would

not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's

people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the

title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with

a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded.

On the receipt by Mr. Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt reply Mr.

Squercum was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money

at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr. Squercum replied

that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord

Mayor.

But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal

of the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain

degree recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons

disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare

to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It

was pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his

money,--and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake

the credit of a man living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was

no crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any

statement to that effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might

probably have been very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly

from either? And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss

in their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things

attorneys would do in these days! But they who had expected to see

Melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated

their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived.

Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have

become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to

Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political

ally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been

walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would

have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the

position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton,

no such popular Conservative offered his services. "I don't think we

ought to throw him over," Mr. Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought,

quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was

very intimate with Mr. Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was

not the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and

everybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had

territorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anything

there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration

to the world that nobody else would do it. "It wouldn't hurt you,

Lupton," said Mr. Beauclerk. "Not at all," said Lupton; "but I also,

like Nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too

bashful." Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the

House at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but

carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom

fears,--that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew

that he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself

he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here

again fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very

founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte

might become an apostle and an expounder,--who, as the reader may

remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his

colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise

and sat there almost in solitude,--he happened to be entering the

House, as his late host was claiming from the door-keeper the

fruition of his privilege. "You had better let me accompany you,"

said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his

heart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of

his party! When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had

been proved to be altogether false. Was not this a guarantee

sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords

that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been

in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He

was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with

Melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte

should be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should

now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he

did not believe the rumours. He was fully determined that the money

should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his

son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He

was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a

little longer. "Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,"

said the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld

Reekie.

"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir," said the

son.

"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't

always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred

thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand.

If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's

money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm

done till the parson has said the word."

"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?"

suggested the son.

"No, I couldn't," replied the father with a very determined aspect.

"I'm awfully hard up."

"So am I." Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after

sitting there ten minutes went away home.

Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and

went to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall

dining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full

of news. "You've heard it, I suppose," said Miles in an awful

whisper.

"Heard what?"

"I believe he doesn't know!" said Lord Grasslough. "By Jove,

Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others."

"What's up now?"

"Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner

has bolted!"

"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was

just going to eat his soup.

"Bolted," repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room

and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon

the features of all the dining members. "Bolted by George! He has

sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called

'Flatfleece.'"

"I know him," said Nidderdale shaking his head.

"I should think so," said Miles ruefully.

"A bottle of champagne!" said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter

in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this

new trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the

ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered

to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of

champagne in the house. "Good G----," exclaimed the unfortunate

nobleman. Miles Grendall shook his head. Grasslough shook his head.

[Illustration: "Not a bottle of champagne in the house."]

"It's true," said another young lord from the table on the other

side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy

voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle

of July.

"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of

brandy, but they had been already consumed. "Send out and get some

brandy," said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so

reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of

his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now

demanded.

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known.

Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding

evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills

were due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were

owing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given,

not to Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances

for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of

the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece. Mr. Flatfleece had

spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now

suggested that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this

moment Dolly Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before

and had heard the story,--but had gone at once to another club for

his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine

to be had. "Here's a go," said Dolly. "One thing atop of another!

There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're

drinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left."

"Had to send round the corner for it, to the public."

"We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now.

Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?"

"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale. "He's all

right I think."

"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here,

and he showed me notes of mine for about £1,500! I write such a

beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But,

by George, a fellow can't eat and drink £1,500 in less than six

months!"

"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly," said Lord Grasslough.

"He's paid some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.

"I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U.'s while

that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte.

How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I

obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow

to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?"

Nidderdale said that he did think so. "I wish he wouldn't go and

write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left

to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove,

I know a worse than Vossner." With that he turned on his heels and

went into the smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence

at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry

Melmotte's daughter.

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House

of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative

benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and

forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had

passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At

first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the

majority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat

motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never

hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very

much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The

Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it

seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people

in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a

sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very

quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to

say the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very

common-place affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on

which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to

return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and

one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of

observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him

reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition

to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language

the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted

to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied.

Melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves,

and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the

debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of

exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars.

About this Melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his

ears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the

city,--and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one Mr.

Brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the House, and who

was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of

his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an

opportunity for himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging

himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the

same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required

some courage certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of

getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction

to parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now

ever teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be

done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy,

and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He

knew nothing of the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them

than an ordinary schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less

trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr. Brown was

tedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though he thought much of his

project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing,

was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr. Brown sat down. There did

not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte

followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been

made and repeated, containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental

error in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate

he desired to show the House that Mr. Brown did not know what he

was talking about,--because Mr. Brown had not come to his dinner.

When Mr. Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not

popular, and they who understood the business of the House were well

aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three

commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed

to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but on a sudden

the new member was on his legs.

Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there

that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours

of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one

whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had

been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be

withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred

by shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by

another party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by

his disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not

only in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of

courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he

first speaks, was extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement

in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent

hum, almost of approbation.

As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that

everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal

of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to

his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr. Brown had been

toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of

great men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be

at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning

beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no

doubt, prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches

every year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of

putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought

at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might

do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But

there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the

mace,--and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen

opposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had

forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr.

Brown.

But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether

quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the

face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make

a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him.

"Mr. Brown is all wrong," he said. He had not even taken off his hat

as he rose. Mr. Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some

one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested

that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of

course he did not understand. "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, nodding

his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.

[Illustration: Melmotte in Parliament.]

"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most good-natured

voice which he could assume, "is not perhaps as yet aware that

he should not call another member by his name. He should speak

of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member

for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another

honourable member, but the chair."

"You should take your hat off," said the good-natured gentleman

behind.

In such a position how should any man understand so many and such

complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the

gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was

of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. "What he said

was all wrong," continued Melmotte; "and I should have thought a man

out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better." Then

there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of

laughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while

glaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his

attack on Mr. Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put

down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of

familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words

with which to carry on the combat. "I ought to know something about

it," said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his

shame under his hat.

"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does

understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we shall

be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon

ignorance of its rules in so young a member."

But Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort,

and had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say

that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to

admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat

till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out

with as stately a demeanour as he could assume.

"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in

the lobby.

"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he

was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me

do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort

of a place."

"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe opening his black

eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.

"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money

either," said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; "do you leave Mr.

Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as

to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game

as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be

afraid of every word that is spoken."

"Oh, dear; yes;" said Cohenlupe apologetically. "You don't suppose

that I am afraid of anything." But at that moment Mr. Cohenlupe was

meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and

was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an

order from the British police would have no power to interfere with

the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now

willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as

to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to

Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.