Mr Alf’s central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for the things that had been said, Mr Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be — wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the following morning. Others had been told that at the last moment his name would be withdrawn — and a question arose as to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day before the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr Alf’s cause. A second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that Mr Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said of him — many at least so declared — not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr Alf’s return. Tidings of the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr Alf’s friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr Alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.
About two o’clock in the day, Mr Alf did make a speech — and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the ‘Evening Pulpit.’ Mr Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit; — and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. ‘Mr Melmotte,’ he said, ‘comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends — for he has not favoured us with many words of his own — that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him; — and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr Melmotte’s committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it.’ Then he ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. ‘I scorn,’ said he, ‘to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long before these reports were in men’s mouths, that Mr Melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since — unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris; — ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!’ There was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr Alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for himself.
At two or three o’clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used — partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be due to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr Melmotte. But there was a commencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr Melmotte.
About three o’clock, the editor of the ‘Morning Breakfast-Table’ called on Lady Carbury. ‘What is it all about?’ she asked, as soon as her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain anything at Madame Melmotte’s reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of what was going on.
‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Mr Broune. ‘There is a story abroad that Mr Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made — and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘Ah — I could answer almost any question sooner than that.’
‘Then he can’t be rich at all.’
‘Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills.’
‘Will he be returned?’ she asked.
‘From what we hear, we think not; I shall know more about it in an hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won’t matter so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers.’
‘I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool,’ said Lady Carbury.
‘It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her.’
‘I saw him talking to her last night.’
‘There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at ￡15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that.’ But Mr Broune’s eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr Alf. ‘I shouldn’t think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.’
‘Has it never been done?’
‘Never, I think; — that is, by the editor of such a paper as the “Pulpit.” How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he’ll come to the ground. Where’s Felix now?’
‘Do not ask me,’ said the poor mother.
‘Is he doing anything?’
‘He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.’
‘But that wants money.’ She only shook her head. ‘You do not give him any?’
‘I have none to give.’
‘I should simply take the key of the house from him — or bolt the door if he will not give it up.’
‘And be in bed, and listen while he knocks — knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence.’ Mr Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.
Melmot............