Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true — even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife — and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her — had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends’ feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come — having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man’s faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury — but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.
But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte’s message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother’s reply. That might be told in a very few words —‘Everything is over!’ But it had to be told.
‘I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you’ll let me,’ she said to her mother at breakfast.
‘Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?’
‘I don’t hate them, mamma. I certainly don’t hate her. I have a message to take to her — from Felix.’
‘A message — from Felix.’
‘It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now, could they, mamma?’
The marriage, in Lady Carbury’s mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. ‘It is out of the question,’ she said. ‘That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can’t go alone, you know,’ Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over Oxford Street.
So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short time; — but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work — having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. ‘Do you want my daughter?’ said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. ‘She is not living here at present.’
‘Oh — I remember now,’ said Hetta.
‘May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?’ At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter.
‘I am Miss Carbury,’ said Hetta in a very low voice.
‘Oh, indeed; — Miss Carbury! — the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?’ There was something in the tone of the man’s voice which grated painfully on Hetta’s ears — but she answered the question. ‘Oh; — Sir Felix’s sister! May I be permitted to ask whether — you have any business with my daughter?’ The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. ‘I wonder whether that is true,’ said Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. ‘Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes — by G— — infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?’
‘I have come because I thought I could do some good,’ she said, trembling with anger and fear. ‘I was speaking to your daughter at your party.’
‘Oh, you were there; — were you? It may be as you say, but how is one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury.’ Here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him! ‘You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool; — are you?’ To this Hetta could make no answer. The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton Street himself and at his bidding she walked by his side. ‘May I hear what you say to her?’ he asked.
‘If you suspect me, Mr Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt.’
‘You can say it all before me.’
‘No; — I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now.’
But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. ‘Oh, you shall see her,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose she’s such a fool as to try that kind of thing again.’ Then the door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotte upstairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room. ‘Miss Carbury,’ she said, ‘this is so good of you — so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you wou............