“I used to sign a paper every quarter,” she said to Fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.
“You’ll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to anyone you’ll have to leave it in a banker’s hands to draw the money for yourself.”
“And can that be done over in California?”
“Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I’ll do it, if you’ll trust me. There’s only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte.”
“And what’s that?”
“After the sort of society you’ve been used to here, I don’t know how you’ll get on among us Americans. We’re a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you’ll make up in the flavour.” This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been used.
“I hate swells,” said Marie, flashing round upon him.
“Do you now?”
“Like poison. What’s the use of ’em? They never mean a word that they say—and they don’t say so many words either. They’re never more than half awake, and don’t care the least about anybody. I hate London.”
“Do you now?”
“Oh, don’t I?”
“I wonder whether you’d hate Frisco?”
“I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place.”
“Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you’d hate—me?”
“Mr. Fisker, that’s nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?”
“But you do. I’ve found out one or two that you don’t love. If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won’t just hate me, you know.” Then he took her gently by the arm;—but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and Mr. Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm brandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the whole Madame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow’s weeds.
“I don’t think much of you as a bookkeeper, you know,” Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Boardroom of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father’s advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, who were all Directors;—but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker’s letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. “Dear Mr. Fisker—I really don’t know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale.” Mr. Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for nonattendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to the end. “Upon my word,” continued Fisker, “it’s astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?”
“It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker,” said the German.
“Nor anybody else’s either,” said the domineering American. “Of course it’s on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at.” Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days;—or perhaps hours might suffice.
But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte’s secrets. He did, however, go to Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more respects than one—and need not be heard of again in these pages.
When Melmotte’s affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Very many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr. Brehgert, had speculated in dependence on Melmotte’s sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr. Squercum’s guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers’, he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf. “I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills
