On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr Alf’s paper, the ‘Evening Pulpit,’ a very remarkable article on the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing more remarkable than in this — that it left on the mind of its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed — that in the ‘Evening Pulpit’ was a matter of course — and, above all things, ironical. Next to its omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to the ‘Evening Pulpit.’ There was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served Mr Melmotte. There was a little praise, given of course in irony, to Mr Melmotte’s Board of English Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilizing Mexico by joining it to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there was something said of the universality of Mr Melmotte’s commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercial splendour, no one could tell.
It was generally said at the clubs that Mr Alf had written this article himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men possessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides Pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last forty years, professed that he saw through the article. The ‘Evening Pulpit’ had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could in denouncing Mr Melmotte without incurring the danger of an action for libel. Mr Splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. These new publications generally were mean. Mr Splinter was constant in that opinion; but, putting the meanness aside, he thought that the article was well done. According to his view it was intended to expose Mr Melmotte and the railway. But the Paides Pallados generally did not agree with him. Under such an interpretation, what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted to men? Old Splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was not wit enough left now even among the Paides Pallados to understand a shaft of irony. There could be no doubt, however, at the time, that the world did not go with old Splinter, and that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise.
Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the railway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own advantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life. He was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was a Director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the great commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. And he was a baronet. Very wild Ideas occurred to her. Should she take Mr Alf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be brought together what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte, and Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she could flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she could construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands? And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with Marie, could not forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind ranged still farther. Mr Broune might help, and even Mr Booker. To such a one as Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken support of the Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway as to which Mr Broune and Mr Alf would combine in saying that it was managed by ‘divinity’? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but from day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself.
On the Sunday afternoon Mr Booker called on her and talked to her about the article. She did not say much to Mr Booker as to her own connection with Mr Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was essential in the present emergency. But she listened with all her ears. It was Mr Booker’s idea that the man was going ‘to make a spoon or spoil a horn.’ ‘You think him honest; — don’t you?’ asked Lady Carbury. Mr Booker smiled and hesitated. ‘Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions.’
‘Perhaps that is the best way of putting it,’ said Mr Booker.
‘If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?’
‘At the expense of veracity?’ suggested Mr Booker.
‘At the expense of anything?’ rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. ‘One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule.’
‘You would do evil to produce good?’ asked Mr Booker.
‘I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy.’
‘You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury.’
‘I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity,’ said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. ‘Did I hold your place, Mr Booker, in the literature of my country —’
‘I hold no place, Lady Carbury.’
‘Yes; — and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this.’
‘I should be dismissed to-morrow,’ said Mr Booker, getting up and laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as regarded Mr Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr 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 cer............