Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular Tuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them.

She had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham, telling him that on a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did for him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation.

The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate wing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "Pulpit." Her friend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte's undertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. "Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf," said the lady. The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmotte's guests.

"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall see," said Mr. Melmotte.

"I was one of the unfortunates," said Mr. Alf.

"I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist room you would have found me."

"Ah,--if I had but known!" said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. "Mr. Melmotte,"

she said, whispering to him, "I do so want to make you known to Mr.

Broune. Mr. Broune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Broune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr.

Broune. And they declare, you know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, "that his commercial articles are gospel,--absolutely gospel." Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing.

"Getting very hot," said Mr. Melmotte.

"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune.

"It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June."

"Very hot indeed," said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was over. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day.

Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted.

But Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. "It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carbury;--very good." Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. "And I came," continued Mr.

Melmotte, "because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter." Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve.

"My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man."

"You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?"

"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all.

You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our Board."

"I did;--I did."

"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am." Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.

Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey him,--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive a.s.surance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be "made" by Mr.

Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would be absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world!

Though the ambition was vilely ign.o.ble, the mother's love was n.o.ble and disinterested.

But the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? His daughter would return to him with a t.i.tle, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pa.s.s that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by pa.s.sing it over.

She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most natural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes.

His advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was old-fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now pa.s.sed away. Then her eye settled on Mr.

Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf. She had almost begun to think that Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But Mr.

Broune was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend.

Mr. Broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old goose"

was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would produce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. "Hetta,"

she said, "I have something of business to communicate to Mr. Broune."

And so they were left alone.

"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte," she said smiling.

He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed. "I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man."

"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me,--for if he said little, I said less."

"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."

"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.

She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord.

"Stupid old goose!" she said to herself. "And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix?" The editor nodded his head. "He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."

"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?" Then Lady Carbury nodded her head.

"Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale."

"She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her." She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but lying had become her nature. "Melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she would not have a penny."

"Do you mean that he volunteered that as a threat?"

"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it."

"He would be sure to make some such threat."

"Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city."

"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.

"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?"

"Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."

"He did make it."

"Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving."

"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American Railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him."

"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a t.i.tle, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."

"No;--he has no capital."

"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that."