"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 n.o.body 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 a.s.serting 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 Gra.s.slough 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 cannot 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 upstairs 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.

CHAPTER LI.

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs. Hurtle. As he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished that he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at any rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then have abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of course he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her?

The kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of Roger Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. n.o.body was like Roger Carbury! Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world?

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was necessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard to Mrs. Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that he would see that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to Lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put an end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go again to Islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, she would come to him. In this way there would never be an end to it.

He would certainly go again, as he had promised,--if she should still require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain unvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent by post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as he now told it.

Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.

MY DEAR MRS. HURTLE,--