"THE WAY WE LIVE NOW.\n\nby\n\nANTHONY TROLLOPE.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHREE EDITORS.\n\n\nLet the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character\nand doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may\nhave, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own\nhouse in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk,\nand wrote many letters,--wrote also very much beside letters. She\nspoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature,\nalways spelling the word with a big L. Something of the nature of her\ndevotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this\nmorning she had written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was\nrapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of\nletters. Here is Letter No. 1;--\n\n\n   Thursday,\n   Welbeck Street.\n\n   DEAR FRIEND,--\n\n   I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of\n   my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at latest, so\n   that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like\n   myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor\n   struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and\n   I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really\n   friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only\n   would aid from you help me more than from any other\n   quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my\n   vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will\n   like my \"Criminal Queens.\" The sketch of Semiramis is at\n   any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little\n   to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken\n   from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite\n   make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over\n   so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or\n   three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied\n   my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best\n   I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to\n   care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to\n   Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too\n   strong in my delineations of Henry VIII. and his sinful\n   but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne\n   Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too\n   great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she\n   has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity\n   that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a\n   special hell. How one traces the effect of her training\n   in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with\n   me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty\n   always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it.\n   But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen\n   bred, born and married, and with such other queens around\n   her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie\n   Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be\n   uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. I have accused her\n   lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust\n   the British public will not be angry because I do not\n   whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them\n   altogether in abusing her husband.\n\n   But I must not take up your time by sending you another\n   book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing\n   what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a\n   dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather,\n   as you are a friend, be loving.\n\n   Yours gratefully and faithfully,\n\n   MATILDA CARBURY.\n\n   After all how few women there are who can raise themselves\n   above the quagmire of what we call love, and make\n   themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all\n   these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin\n   that in some phase of their lives they consented to be\n   playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to\n   be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not\n   an old woman write anything?\n\n\nThis letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the\n\"Morning Breakfast Table,\" a daily newspaper of high character; and,\nas it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important\nof the three. Mr. Broune was a man powerful in his profession,--and\nhe was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself\nan old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no\none else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to\nthe reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr. Broune,\nit had never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her\nyears so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was\nimpossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she\nused her beauty not only to increase her influence,--as is natural\nto women who are well-favoured,--but also with a well-considered\ncalculation that she could obtain material assistance in the\nprocuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, by\na prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with which\nprovidence had endowed her. She did not fall in love, she did not\nwilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and\nwhispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes into\nmen's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her\nand them--if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. But the\nend of all was to induce some one to do something which would cause\na publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or an\neditor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he should\nhave been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr. Broune was the\none in whom she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsome\nwomen. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene which had\ntaken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a month before\nthe writing of this letter which has been produced. She had wanted\nhim to take a series of papers for the \"Morning Breakfast Table,\" and\nto have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected that he\nwas rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without special\nfavour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2, or\npossibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left\nher soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstances\nis so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one\nthing and when another! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had\nput his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To say\nthat Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so\ntreated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was a\nlittle accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it\nshould be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and\na valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What did it\nmatter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had been\ndone, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at once\nto understand that that wasn't the way to go on!\n\nWithout a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and\nthen made him an excellent little speech. \"Mr. Broune, how foolish,\nhow wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put\nan end to the friendship between us!\"\n\n\"Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that.\"\n\n\"Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my\ndaughter,--both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--so\nmuch suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as\nyou do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never\ndisgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten.\"\n\nWhen a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to\nsay the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It is\nas much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation.\nMr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quite\nexpect it. \"You know that for worlds I would not offend you,\" he\nsaid. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and\na promise was given that the articles should be printed--and with\ngenerous remuneration.\n\nWhen the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been\nquite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hard\nwork done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a street\ncab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a\nprivate carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to have\nbeen kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr. Broune the affair was\nmore serious. \"Confound them all,\" he said to himself as he left the\nhouse; \"no amount of experience enables a man to know them.\" As he\nwent away he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to\nkiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had\nnot done so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not\nrepeated the offence.\n\nWe will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed\nto the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr.\nBooker, of the \"Literary Chronicle.\" Mr. Booker was a hard-working\nprofessor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means\nwithout influence, and by no means without a conscience. But,\nfrom the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged,\nby compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by the\nencroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demands\non the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he had\nfallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to be\nscrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a\nliterary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with\na large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on\nhim with two little children. He had five hundred a year for editing\nthe \"Literary Chronicle,\" which, through his energy, had become\na valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out some\nbook of his own almost annually. He kept his head above water, and\nwas regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, as\na successful man. He always kept up his spirits, and was able in\nliterary circles to show that he could hold his own. But he was\ndriven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as\ncame in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. It must\nbe confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind.\nLetter No. 2 was as follows;--\n\n\n   Welbeck Street,\n   25th February, 187--.\n\n   DEAR MR. BOOKER,--\n\n   I have told Mr. Leadham--[Mr. Leadham was senior partner\n   in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs.\n   Leadham and Loiter]--to send you an early copy of my\n   \"Criminal Queens.\" I have already settled with my friend\n   Mr. Broune that I am to do your \"New Tale of a Tub\" in\n   the \"Breakfast Table.\" Indeed, I am about it now, and\n   am taking great pains with it. If there is anything\n   you wish to have specially said as to your view of the\n   Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you\n   to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details,\n   which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the\n   sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only\n   getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first\n   four hundred are sold.\n\n   Yours sincerely,\n\n   MATILDA CARBURY.\n\n   ALFRED BOOKER, Esq.,\n   \"Literary Chronicle,\" Office, Strand.\n\n\nThere was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughed\ninwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of Lady\nCarbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,--as he thought also\nof the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must\ninevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to\nknow nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable\nnotice in the \"Breakfast Table\" of his very thoughtful work, called\nthe \"New Tale of a Tub,\" would serve him, even though written by the\nhand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction\nas to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the \"Literary\nChronicle.\" He would not probably say that the book was accurate,\nbut he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that\nthe feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a\nmasterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make\nits way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work,\nand knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's \"Criminal\nQueens,\" without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could\nalmost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes\nof after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr. Booker was an\nhonest man, and had set his face persistently against many literary\nmalpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the French\nhabit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been\nrebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to be\nrather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he\ncould not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. \"Bad;\nof course it is bad,\" he said to a young friend who was working with\nhim on his periodical. \"Who doubts that? How many very bad things are\nthere that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad\nways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong\nenough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are.\" Such was\nMr. Booker.\n\nThen there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed,\nand, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the \"Evening Pulpit,\" which\nduring the last two years had become \"quite a property,\" as men\nconnected with the press were in the habit of saying. The \"Evening\nPulpit\" was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been\nsaid and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people\nin the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would\nbe the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was\neffected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently\nwith an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the\nwriting was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the\narguments, if not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of\nthe paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for\nwhom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjects\nhandled, so that the reading should be pleasant. Mr. Booker's\n\"Literary Chronicle\" did not presume to entertain any special\npolitical opinions. The \"Breakfast Table\" was decidedly Liberal. The\n\"Evening Pulpit\" was much given to politics, but held strictly to the\nmotto which it had assumed;--\n\n   \"Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;\"--\n\nand consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing\nwhat was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper\nthat wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and\nweary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull,--a\nfact that Mr. Alf had discovered and had utilized.\n\nMr. Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those who\noccasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and\nthey who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too\nhot to hold them. But censure from those who are always finding\nfault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be\nobjectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held\nto be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's\nface and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him to\nvilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series of\nportraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he\nwould certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr. Alf never made\nenemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of his\nnewspaper went, was satisfied with nothing.\n\nPersonally, Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came\nor what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew;\nand certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue the\nslightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded to\nhim that he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During\nthe last year or two he had \"come up\" as the phrase goes, and had\ncome up very thoroughly. He had been black-balled at three or four\nclubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, and\nhad learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him\ncalculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the\nsocieties in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He\nwas never weary of implying that not to know Mr. Alf, not to be on\ngood terms with Mr. Alf, not to understand that let Mr. Alf have been\nborn where he might and how he might he was always to be recognised\nas a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark.\nAnd that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and\nwomen around him began at last to believe,--and Mr. Alf became an\nacknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters,\nand fashion.\n\nHe was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying\nhimself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle\nheight, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of\ngrey but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile\nconstantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied\nby the sharp severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost\nsimplicity, but also with the utmost care. He was unmarried, had\na small house of his own close to Berkeley Square at which he\ngave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in\nNorthamptonshire, and was reputed to earn £6,000 a year out of the\n\"Evening Pulpit\" and to spend about half of that income. He also was\nintimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose diligence in\nmaking and fostering useful friendships had been unwearied. Her\nletter to Mr. Alf was as follows;--\n\n\n   DEAR MR. ALF,--\n\n   Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's\n   last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done\n   so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold\n   his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully\n   deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of\n   would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground\n   influences to get their volumes placed on every\n   drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has\n   been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker,\n   but I have heard of no one who has extended the good\n   nature to the length of reading his poetry.\n\n   Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the\n   reputation of popular authorship without adding a word\n   to the literature of their country worthy of note? It is\n   accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of\n   puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become\n   different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish\n   I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken\n   by such a poor tyro as myself. Much as I hate the thing\n   from my very soul, and much as I admire the consistency\n   with which the \"Pulpit\" has opposed it, I myself am so\n   much in want of support for my own little efforts, and\n   am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a\n   remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity\n   offered to me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the\n   high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought\n   neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low\n   things, in order that I might one day have the pride of\n   feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing\n   for the needs of my children.\n\n   But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards;\n   and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I\n   shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest,\n   to anything which may appear in the \"Pulpit\" respecting\n   my \"Criminal Queens.\" I venture to think that the\n   book,--though I wrote it myself,--has an importance of\n   its own which will secure for it some notice. That my\n   inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged I do\n   not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will be\n   able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the\n   portraits well considered. You will not hear me told,\n   at any rate, that I had better sit at home and darn\n   my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor\n   unfortunate Mrs. Effington Stubbs.\n\n   I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few\n   friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or\n   the week following. And pray believe that no amount of\n   editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you\n   otherwise than with a smile.\n\n   Most sincerely yours,\n\n   MATILDA CARBURY.\n\n\nLady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back\nin her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though\nabout to rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life\ndid not admit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and began\nscribbling further notes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE CARBURY FAMILY.\n\n\nSomething of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader\nin the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added.\nShe has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also\nshown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be\ntaken with much confidence. If the reader does not understand so much\nfrom her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain.\nShe has been made to say that her object in work was to provide for\nthe need of her children, and that with that noble purpose before\nher she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature.\nDetestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely\nand abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was\nendeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as\nshe had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things\namong which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about\nherself were substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had\nbeen slandered. She was true to her children,--especially devoted to\none of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she\ncould advance their interests.\n\nShe was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since\nhad done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereupon\ncreated a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and,\nhaving found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had\noccasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her. In\ndoing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faults\nhad never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimental\ninfidelity to her husband. When as a very lovely and penniless girl\nof eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had\nthe spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandon\nall hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which young\npeople generally desire to experience. Sir Patrick at the time of\nhis marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in\nmoney, suspicious in temper, and intelligent. He knew how to govern\nmen. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing mean\nabout him. He had his attractive qualities. He was a man who might\nbe loved;--but he was hardly a man for love. The young Lady Carbury\nhad understood her position and had determined to do her duty. She\nhad resolved before she went to the altar that she would never allow\nherself to flirt and she had never flirted. For fifteen years things\nhad gone tolerably well with her,--by which it is intended that the\nreader should understand that they had so gone that she had been able\nto tolerate them. They had been home in England for three or four\nyears, and then Sir Patrick had returned with some new and higher\nappointment. For fifteen years, though he had been passionate,\nimperious, and often cruel, he had never been jealous. A boy and\na girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother had\nbeen over indulgent;--but the mother, according to her lights, had\nendeavoured to do her duty by them. But from the commencement of her\nlife she had been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed\nto make the practice of deceit necessary to her. Her mother had run\naway from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between\nthis and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any\none to care for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous,\nand untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position. But she was\nclever, and had picked up an education and good manners amidst the\ndifficulties of her childhood,--and had been beautiful to look at.\nTo marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, to\nlive in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,--and\nduring the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful\namidst great difficulties. She would smile within five minutes of\nviolent ill-usage. Her husband would even strike her,--and the first\neffort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from all the\nworld. In latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard\nfirst to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the ill\neffects of the evil. But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and\nlived a life of manoeuvres. Then, at last, when she felt that she\nwas no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt to\nform friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the\nother sex. If fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship,\nif the married state does not exact from a woman the necessity of\ndebarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man except\nher lord, Lady Carbury was not faithless. But Sir Carbury became\njealous, spoke words which even she could not endure, did things\nwhich drove even her beyond the calculations of her prudence,--and\nshe left him. But even this she did in so guarded a way that, as to\nevery step she took, she could prove her innocence. Her life at that\nperiod is of little moment to our story, except that it is essential\nthat the reader should know in what she had been slandered. For\na month or two all hard words had been said against her by her\nhusband's friends, and even by Sir Patrick himself. But gradually\nthe truth was known, and after a year's separation they came again\ntogether and she remained the mistress of his house till he died. She\nbrought him home to England, but during the short period left to him\nof life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid.\nBut the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and some\npeople were never tired of reminding others that in the course of her\nmarried life Lady Carbury had run away from her husband, and had been\ntaken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.\n\nSir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no\nmeans great wealth. To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he had\nleft £1,000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision that\nafter her death the latter sum should be divided between his son\nand daughter. It therefore came to pass that the young man, who had\nalready entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolved\nno necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequently\nlived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with which\nhis mother and his sister were obliged to maintain a roof over their\nhead. Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldom\nat the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her future\nlife amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood. She had hitherto\nendeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her position\nshe was bound to take the good and the bad together. She had\ncertainly encountered hitherto much that was bad. To be scolded,\nwatched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at\nlast driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage; to be\ntaken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would for\nthe remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flight\nconstantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a year\nor two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay for\nsuch good things as she had hitherto enjoyed. Now at length had come\nto her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance of\nhappiness. She thought much about herself, and resolved on one or two\nthings. The time for love had gone by, and she would have nothing\nto do with it. Nor would she marry again for convenience. But she\nwould have friends,--real friends; friends who could help her,--and\nwhom possibly she might help. She would, too, make some career for\nherself, so that life might not be without an interest to her. She\nwould live in London, and would become somebody at any rate in some\ncircle. Accident at first rather than choice had thrown her among\nliterary people, but that accident had, during the last two years,\nbeen supported and corroborated by the desire which had fallen upon\nher of earning money. She had known from the first that economy\nwould be necessary to her,--not chiefly or perhaps not at all from a\nfeeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together\non a thousand a year,--but on behalf of her son. She wanted no luxury\nbut a house so placed that people might conceive of her that she\nlived in a proper part of the town. Of her daughter's prudence she\nwas as well convinced as of her own. She could trust Henrietta in\neverything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not very trustworthy. And yet\nSir Felix was the darling of her heart.\n\nAt the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story\nis supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felix\nwas then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for four\nyears, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had\naltogether wasted the property which his father had left him. So much\nthe mother knew,--and knew, therefore, that with her limited income\nshe must maintain not only herself and daughter, but also the\nbaronet. She did not know, however, the amount of the baronet's\nobligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. A baronet,\nholding a commission in the Guards, and known to have had a fortune\nleft him by his father, may go very far in getting into debt; and Sir\nFelix had made full use of all his privileges. His life had been in\nevery way bad. He had become a burden on his mother so heavy,--and\non his sister also,--that their life had become one of unavoidable\nembarrassments. But not for a moment had either of them ever\nquarrelled with him. Henrietta had been taught by the conduct of both\nfather and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man and in\na son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and especially\nfrom a daughter. The lesson had come to her so early in life that she\nhad learned it without the feeling of any grievance. She lamented\nher brother's evil conduct as it affected him, but she pardoned it\naltogether as it affected herself. That all her interests in life\nshould be made subservient to him was natural to her; and when she\nfound that her little comforts were discontinued, and her moderate\nexpenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his\nown, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she never\ncomplained. Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank\nof life in which she had been born always did eat up everything.\n\nThe mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might better\nbe said, more open to censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as a\nstar, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which\nher heart had rivetted itself. Even during the career of his folly\nshe had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of\nstopping him on his road to ruin. In everything she had spoilt him\nas a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. She was\nalmost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings\nwhich if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from their\nextravagance. She had so indulged him that even in her own presence\nhe was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently conscious\nof the injustice which he did to others.\n\nFrom all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literature\nwhich had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in\nthe work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted into\nhard work by which money if possible might be earned. So that Lady\nCarbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggles\nwas speaking the truth. Tidings had reached her of this and the other\nman's success, and,--coming near to her still,--of this and that\nother woman's earnings in literature. And it had seemed to her that,\nwithin moderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes. Why\nshould she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix\nmight again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady\nCarbury's look-out into the future, was destined to make all things\nstraight! Who was so handsome as her son? Who could make himself more\nagreeable? Who had more of that audacity which is the chief thing\nnecessary to the winning of heiresses? And then he could make his\nwife Lady Carbury. If only enough money might be earned to tide over\nthe present evil day, all might be well.\n\nThe one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all\nthis was probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was to\nbe obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certain\npeople to say that her books were good. She did work hard at what\nshe wrote,--hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly;\nand was, by nature, a clever woman. She could write after a glib,\ncommon-place, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knack\nof spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast\nsurface. She had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfully\nanxious to write a book that the critics should say was good. Had Mr.\nBroune, in his closet, told her that her book was absolutely trash,\nbut had undertaken at the same time to have it violently praised in\nthe \"Breakfast Table,\" it may be doubted whether the critic's own\nopinion would have even wounded her vanity. The woman was false from\nhead to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though she\nwas.\n\nWhether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad\ntraining, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is\nhardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken\naway as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers.\nAnd yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want of\ntraining should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling\nfor others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes\nunless they touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemed\nthat he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though\nthe futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by\na single month, a single week,--but by a single night. He liked to\nbe kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and\ncaressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. He\nhad in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher\nsympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he had\never loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment's\ngratification on that loved one's behalf. His heart was a stone. But\nhe was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He was\nvery dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives\nto young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. His hair, which\nwas never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft\nand silky without that taint of grease which is so common with\nsilken-headed darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, and\nwere made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. But\nperhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding\nand fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features.\nOn his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his\neyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his chin too was\nperfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression,\nindicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. He was about\nfive feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face.\nIt was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man\nhad ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted\nalso that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He had given\nhimself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool,\nwhile it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his army\nstanding till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiority\nin fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough to dress\nhimself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thought\nabout his outward man. As yet the little world of his associates had\nhardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather how\ndevoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance, joined with\nsome cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness of\nhis life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's\nweakness had injured his character among his friends more than he had\ndone by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel between\nhim and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and,\nwhen the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced\nmanly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white\nfeather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the\nevil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been\ncowed, and had cowered.\n\nIt was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well aware that\nit was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lacked\nsomething in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the\nmanners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity,\nand had no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did\nnot feel. But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly\nmake even a young girl believe that he felt it. When he talked of\nlove, he not only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed\nthat he thought so. From this fault he had already failed with one\nyoung lady reputed to have £40,000, who had refused him because, as\nshe naively said, she knew \"he did not really care.\" \"How can I show\nthat I care more than by wishing to make you my wife?\" he had asked.\n\"I don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care,\" she\nsaid. And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall. Now there was\nanother young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced in time,\nwhom Sir Felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting diligence.\nHer wealth was not defined, as had been the £40,000 of her\npredecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that. It was,\nindeed, generally supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless.\nIt was said that in regard to money for ordinary expenditure, money\nfor houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum was\nthe same as another to the father of this young lady. He had great\nconcerns;--concerns so great that the payment of ten or twenty\nthousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to him,--as to men\nwho are comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whether\nthey pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops. Such a man\nmay be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to any one\nmarrying his daughter during the present season of his outrageous\nprosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. Lady Carbury,\nwho had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, was\nvery anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a proper use of the\nintimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping Croesus\nof the day.\n\nAnd now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Of\ncourse she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who\nwas a baronet, the head of that branch of the Carburys, and her\nmother's darling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice. She\nalso was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less\ndark and with features less absolutely regular. But she had in her\ncountenance a full measure of that sweetness of expression which\nseems to imply that consideration of self is subordinated to\nconsideration for others. This sweetness was altogether lacking to\nher brother. And her face was a true index of her character. Again,\nwho shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to\neach other; whether they would have been thus different had both been\ntaken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, or\nwhether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower place\nwhich she had held in her parent's heart? She, at any rate, had\nnot been spoilt by a title, by the command of money, and by the\ntemptations of too early acquaintance with the world. At the present\ntime she was barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of\nLondon society. Her mother did not frequent balls, and during the\nlast two years there had grown upon them a necessity for economy\nwhich was inimical to many gloves and costly dresses. Sir Felix went\nout of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home with\nher mother in Welbeck Street. Occasionally the world saw her, and\nwhen the world did see her the world declared that she was a charming\ngirl. The world was so far right.\n\nBut for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already commenced\nin real earnest. There was another branch of the Carburys, the head\nbranch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury\nHall. Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to be\nsaid, but here, at this moment, it need only be told that he was\npassionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however,\nnearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom\nHenrietta had seen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE BEARGARDEN.\n\n\nLady Carbury's house in Welbeck Street was a modest house\nenough,--with no pretensions to be a mansion, hardly assuming even\nto be a residence; but, having some money in her hands when she\nfirst took it, she had made it pretty and pleasant, and was still\nproud to feel that in spite of the hardness of her position she had\ncomfortable belongings around her when her literary friends came to\nsee her on her Tuesday evenings. Here she was now living with her son\nand daughter. The back drawing-room was divided from the front by\ndoors that were permanently closed, and in this she carried on her\ngreat work. Here she wrote her books and contrived her system for the\ninveigling of editors and critics. Here she was rarely disturbed by\nher daughter, and admitted no visitors except editors and critics.\nBut her son was controlled by no household laws, and would break\nin upon her privacy without remorse. She had hardly finished two\ngalloping notes after completing her letter to Mr. Ferdinand Alf,\nwhen Felix entered the room with a cigar in his mouth and threw\nhimself upon the sofa.\n\n\"My dear boy,\" she said, \"pray leave your tobacco below when you come\nin here.\"\n\n\"What affectation it is, mother,\" he said, throwing, however, the\nhalf-smoked cigar into the fire-place. \"Some women swear they like\nsmoke, others say they hate it like the devil. It depends altogether\non whether they wish to flatter or snub a fellow.\"\n\n\"You don't suppose that I wish to snub you?\"\n\n\"Upon my word I don't know. I wonder whether you can let me have\ntwenty pounds?\"\n\n\"My dear Felix!\"\n\n\"Just so, mother;--but how about the twenty pounds?\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Just so, mother;--but how about the twenty\npounds?\"]\n\n\n\"What is it for, Felix?\"\n\n\"Well;--to tell the truth, to carry on the game for the nonce till\nsomething is settled. A fellow can't live without some money in his\npocket. I do with as little as most fellows. I pay for nothing that\nI can help. I even get my hair cut on credit, and as long as it was\npossible I had a brougham, to save cabs.\"\n\n\"What is to be the end of it, Felix?\"\n\n\"I never could see the end of anything, mother. I never could nurse\na horse when the hounds were going well in order to be in at the\nfinish. I never could pass a dish that I liked in favour of those\nthat were to follow. What's the use?\" The young man did not say\n\"carpe diem,\" but that was the philosophy which he intended to\npreach.\n\n\"Have you been at the Melmottes' to-day?\" It was now five o'clock on\na winter afternoon, the hour at which ladies are drinking tea, and\nidle men playing whist at the clubs,--at which young idle men are\nsometimes allowed to flirt, and at which, as Lady Carbury thought,\nher son might have been paying his court to Marie Melmotte the great\nheiress.\n\n\"I have just come away.\"\n\n\"And what do you think of her?\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, mother, I have thought very little about her.\nShe is not pretty, she is not plain; she is not clever, she is not\nstupid; she is neither saint nor sinner.\"\n\n\"The more likely to make a good wife.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so. I am at any rate quite willing to believe that as wife\nshe would be 'good enough for me.'\"\n\n\"What does the mother say?\"\n\n\"The mother is a caution. I cannot help speculating whether, if I\nmarry the daughter, I shall ever find out where the mother came from.\nDolly Longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a Bohemian\nJewess; but I think she's too fat for that.\"\n\n\"What does it matter, Felix?\"\n\n\"Not in the least.\"\n\n\"Is she civil to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, civil enough.\"\n\n\"And the father?\"\n\n\"Well, he does not turn me out, or anything of that sort. Of course\nthere are half-a-dozen after her, and I think the old fellow is\nbewildered among them all. He's thinking more of getting dukes to\ndine with him than of his daughter's lovers. Any fellow might pick\nher up who happened to hit her fancy.\"\n\n\"And why not you?\"\n\n\"Why not, mother? I am doing my best, and it's no good flogging a\nwilling horse. Can you let me have the money?\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix, I think you hardly know how poor we are. You have still\ngot your hunters down at the place!\"\n\n\"I have got two horses, if you mean that; and I haven't paid a\nshilling for their keep since the season began. Look here, mother;\nthis is a risky sort of game, I grant, but I am playing it by your\nadvice. If I can marry Miss Melmotte, I suppose all will be right.\nBut I don't think the way to get her would be to throw up everything\nand let all the world know that I haven't got a copper. To do that\nkind of thing a man must live a little up to the mark. I've brought\nmy hunting down to a minimum, but if I gave it up altogether there\nwould be lots of fellows to tell them in Grosvenor Square why I had\ndone so.\"\n\nThere was an apparent truth in this argument which the poor woman was\nunable to answer. Before the interview was over the money demanded\nwas forthcoming, though at the time it could be but ill afforded, and\nthe youth went away apparently with a light heart, hardly listening\nto his mother's entreaties that the affair with Marie Melmotte might,\nif possible, be brought to a speedy conclusion.\n\nFelix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to which\nhe now belonged. Clubs are pleasant resorts in all respects but one.\nThey require ready money, or even worse than that in respect to\nannual payments,--money in advance; and the young baronet had been\nabsolutely forced to restrict himself. He, as a matter of course, out\nof those to which he had possessed the right of entrance, chose the\nworst. It was called the Beargarden, and had been lately opened with\nthe express view of combining parsimony with profligacy. Clubs were\nruined, so said certain young parsimonious profligates, by providing\ncomforts for old fogies who paid little or nothing but their\nsubscriptions, and took out by their mere presence three times as\nmuch as they gave. This club was not to be opened till three o'clock\nin the afternoon, before which hour the promoters of the Beargarden\nthought it improbable that they and their fellows would want a\nclub. There were to be no morning papers taken, no library, no\nmorning-room. Dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would\nsuffice for the Beargarden. Everything was to be provided by a\npurveyor, so that the club should be cheated only by one man.\nEverything was to be luxurious, but the luxuries were to be achieved\nat first cost. It had been a happy thought, and the club was said to\nprosper. Herr Vossner, the purveyor, was a jewel, and so carried on\naffairs that there was no trouble about anything. He would assist\neven in smoothing little difficulties as to the settling of card\naccounts, and had behaved with the greatest tenderness to the drawers\nof cheques whose bankers had harshly declared them to have \"no\neffects.\" Herr Vossner was a jewel, and the Beargarden was a\nsuccess. Perhaps no young man about town enjoyed the Beargarden more\nthoroughly than did Sir Felix Carbury. The club was in the close\nvicinity of other clubs, in a small street turning out of St. James's\nStreet, and piqued itself on its outward quietness and sobriety. Why\npay for stone-work for other people to look at;--why lay out money\nin marble pillars and cornices, seeing that you can neither eat such\nthings, nor drink them, nor gamble with them? But the Beargarden had\nthe best wines,--or thought that it had,--and the easiest chairs, and\ntwo billiard-tables than which nothing more perfect had ever been\nmade to stand upon legs. Hither Sir Felix wended on that January\nafternoon as soon as he had his mother's cheque for £20 in his\npocket.\n\nHe found his special friend, Dolly Longestaffe, standing on the steps\nwith a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the dull brick\nhouse opposite. \"Going to dine here, Dolly?\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhere\nelse. I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to getting home\nand dressing. By George! I don't know how fellows do that kind of\nthing. I can't.\"\n\n\"Going to hunt to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall. I was going to hunt every\nday last week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. I can't\ntell why it is that things are done in such a beastly way. Why\nshouldn't fellows begin to hunt at two or three, so that a fellow\nneedn't get up in the middle of the night?\"\n\n\"Because one can't ride by moonlight, Dolly.\"\n\n\"It isn't moonlight at three. At any rate I can't get myself to\nEuston Square by nine. I don't think that fellow of mine likes\ngetting up himself. He says he comes in and wakes me, but I never\nremember it.\"\n\n\"How many horses have you got at Leighton, Dolly?\"\n\n\"How many? There were five, but I think that fellow down there sold\none; but then I think he bought another. I know he did something.\"\n\n\"Who rides them?\"\n\n\"He does, I suppose. That is, of course, I ride them myself, only I\nso seldom get down. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two\nof them last week. I don't think I ever told him he might. I think he\ntipped that fellow of mine; and I call that a low kind of thing to\ndo. I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that I had lent them. Perhaps\nI did when I was tight, you know.\"\n\n\"You and Grasslough were never pals.\"\n\n\"I don't like him a bit. He gives himself airs because he is a lord,\nand is devilish ill-natured. I don't know why he should want to ride\nmy horses.\"\n\n\"To save his own.\"\n\n\"He isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell you\nwhat, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I'll\nstick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows\nwant horses let them buy them.\"\n\n\"But some fellows haven't got any money, Dolly.\"\n\n\"Then they ought to go tick. I don't think I've paid for any of mine\nI've bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday--\"\n\n\"What! here at the club?\"\n\n\"Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! It\nwas horses, I think, because of the fellow's trousers.\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Me! Oh, I didn't say anything.\"\n\n\"And how did it end?\"\n\n\"When he'd done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was\nbiting off the end I went up-stairs. I suppose he went away when he\nwas tired of waiting.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours\nfor a couple of days,--that is, of course, if you don't want them\nyourself. You ain't tight now, at any rate.\"\n\n\"No; I ain't tight,\" said Dolly, with melancholy acquiescence.\n\n\"I mean that I wouldn't like to borrow your horses without your\nremembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfully\ndone up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeeze\nin the meantime. There's nobody I'd ask such a favour of except you.\"\n\n\"Well, you may have them;--that is, for two days. I don't know\nwhether that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe\nGrasslough, and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the\nstables. That's what somebody told me.\"\n\n\"You could write a line to your groom.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could do\nthat. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals.\nI think I'll have a little drop of curaçoa before dinner. Come along\nand try it. It'll give us an appetite.\"\n\nIt was then nearly seven o'clock. Nine hours afterwards the same\ntwo men, with two others,--of whom young Lord Grasslough, Dolly\nLongestaffe's peculiar aversion, was one,--were just rising from a\ncard-table in one of the up-stairs rooms of the club. For it was\nunderstood that, though the Beargarden was not to be open before\nthree o'clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during\nthe day was to be given freely during the night. No man could get\na breakfast at the Beargarden, but suppers at three o'clock in\nthe morning were quite within the rule. Such a supper, or rather\nsuccession of suppering, there had been to-night, various devils and\nbroils and hot toasts having been brought up from time to time first\nfor one and then for another. But there had been no cessation of\ngambling since the cards had first been opened about ten o'clock. At\nfour in the morning Dolly Longestaffe was certainly in a condition\nto lend his horses and to remember nothing about it. He was quite\naffectionate with Lord Grasslough, as he was also with his other\ncompanions,--affection being the normal state of his mind when\nin that condition. He was by no means helplessly drunk, and was,\nperhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober; but he was willing\nto play at any game whether he understood it or not, and for any\nstakes. When Sir Felix got up and said he would play no more, Dolly\nalso got up, apparently quite contented. When Lord Grasslough, with\na dark scowl on his face, expressed his opinion that it was not\njust the thing for men to break up like that when so much money had\nbeen lost, Dolly as willingly sat down again. But Dolly's sitting\ndown was not sufficient. \"I'm going to hunt to-morrow,\" said Sir\nFelix,--meaning that day,--\"and I shall play no more. A man must go\nto bed at some time.\"\n\n\"I don't see it at all,\" said Lord Grasslough. \"It's an understood\nthing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay.\"\n\n\"Stay how long?\" said Sir Felix, with an angry look. \"That's\nnonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of\nthis for me to-night.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you choose,\" said his lordship.\n\n\"I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we'll settle this next time we meet.\nI've got it all entered.\"\n\nThe night had been one very serious in its results to Sir Felix. He\nhad sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of his mother's\ncheque, a poor £20, and now he had,--he didn't at all know how much\nin his pockets. He also had drunk, but not so as to obscure his mind.\nHe knew that Longestaffe owed him over £800, and he knew also that\nhe had received more than that in ready money and cheques from Lord\nGrasslough and the other player. Dolly Longestaffe's money, too,\nwould certainly be paid, though Dolly did complain of the importunity\nof his tradesmen. As he walked up St. James's Street, looking for a\ncab, he presumed himself to be worth over £700. When begging for a\nsmall sum from Lady Carbury, he had said that he could not carry\non the game without some ready money, and had considered himself\nfortunate in fleecing his mother as he had done. Now he was in\nthe possession of wealth,--of wealth that might, at any rate, be\nsufficient to aid him materially in the object he had in hand. He\nnever for a moment thought of paying his bills. Even the large sum of\nwhich he had become so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far\nwith him in such a quixotic object as that; but he could now look\nbright, and buy presents, and be seen with money in his hands. It is\nhard even to make love in these days without something in your purse.\n\nHe found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent to\nthe trouble of walking home. There was something so joyous in the\nfeeling of the possession of all this money that it made the night\nair pleasant to him. Then, of a sudden, he remembered the low wail\nwith which his mother had spoken of her poverty when he demanded\nassistance from her. Now he could give her back the £20. But it\noccurred to him sharply, with an amount of carefulness quite new to\nhim, that it would be foolish to do so. How soon might he want it\nagain? And, moreover, he could not repay the money without explaining\nto her how he had gotten it. It would be preferable to say nothing\nabout his money. As he let himself into the house and went up to his\nroom he resolved that he would not say anything about it.\n\nOn that morning he was at the station at nine, and hunted down in\nBuckinghamshire, riding two of Dolly Longestaffe's horses,--for the\nuse of which he paid Dolly Longestaffe's \"fellow\" thirty shillings.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nMADAME MELMOTTE'S BALL.\n\n\nThe next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at the\nBeargarden, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a\nball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about ever\nsince Parliament met, now about a fortnight since. Some people had\nexpressed an opinion that such a ball as this was intended to be\ncould not be given successfully in February. Others declared that the\nmoney which was to be spent,--an amount which would make this affair\nsomething quite new in the annals of ball-giving,--would give the\nthing such a character that it would certainly be successful. And\nmuch more than money had been expended. Almost incredible efforts\nhad been made to obtain the co-operation of great people, and these\nefforts had at last been grandly successful. The Duchess of Stevenage\nhad come up from Castle Albury herself to be present at it and to\nbring her daughters, though it has never been her Grace's wont to be\nin London at this inclement season. No doubt the persuasion used with\nthe Duchess had been very strong. Her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall,\nwas known to be in great difficulties, which,--so people said,--had\nbeen considerably modified by opportune pecuniary assistance. And\nthen it was certain that one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's\nsecond son, had been appointed to some mercantile position, for which\nhe received a salary which his most intimate friends thought that he\nwas hardly qualified to earn. It was certainly a fact that he went to\nAbchurch Lane, in the City, four or five days a week, and that he did\nnot occupy his time in so unaccustomed a manner for nothing. Where\nthe Duchess of Stevenage went all the world would go. And it became\nknown at the last moment, that is to say only the day before the\nparty, that a prince of the blood royal was to be there. How this\nhad been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours\nthat a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's.\nEverything was done on the same scale. The Prime Minister had indeed\ndeclined to allow his name to appear on the list; but one Cabinet\nMinister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come\nbecause it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long be\nthe master of considerable parliamentary interest. It was believed\nthat he had an eye to politics, and it is always wise to have great\nwealth on one's own side. There had at one time been much solicitude\nabout the ball. Many anxious thoughts had been given. When great\nattempts fail, the failure is disastrous, and may be ruinous. But\nthis ball had now been put beyond the chance of failure.\n\nThe giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, Esq., the father of the\ngirl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the\nlady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. It was thus that\nthe gentleman chose to have himself designated, though within the\nlast two years he had arrived in London from Paris, and had at first\nbeen known as M. Melmotte. But he had declared of himself that he\nhad been born in England, and that he was an Englishman. He admitted\nthat his wife was a foreigner,--an admission that was necessary as\nshe spoke very little English. Melmotte himself spoke his \"native\"\nlanguage fluently, but with an accent which betrayed at least a long\nexpatriation. Miss Melmotte,--who a very short time since had been\nknown as Mademoiselle Marie,--spoke English well, but as a foreigner.\nIn regard to her it was acknowledged that she had been born out of\nEngland,--some said in New York; but Madame Melmotte, who must have\nknown, had declared that the great event had taken place in Paris.\n\nIt was at any rate an established fact that Mr. Melmotte had made\nhis wealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in other\ncountries, as to which stories were told which must surely have been\nexaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia,\nthat he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, that\nhe had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all\nthe iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying or\nselling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. All\nthis was said of him in his praise,--but it was also said that he\nwas regarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever\nlived; that he had made that City too hot to hold him; that he had\nendeavoured to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned away\nby the police; and that he had at length found that British freedom\nwould alone allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of\nhis industry. He was now established privately in Grosvenor Square\nand officially in Abchurch Lane; and it was known to all the world\nthat a Royal Prince, a Cabinet Minister, and the very cream of\nduchesses were going to his wife's ball. All this had been done\nwithin twelve months.\n\nThere was but one child in the family, one heiress for all this\nwealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and\nrough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of power\nabout his mouth and chin. This was so strong as to redeem his face\nfrom vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the man were\non the whole unpleasant, and, I may say, untrustworthy. He looked as\nthough he were purse-proud and a bully. She was fat and fair,--unlike\nin colour to our traditional Jewesses; but she had the Jewish nose\nand the Jewish contraction of the eyes. There was certainly very\nlittle in Madame Melmotte to recommend her, unless it was a readiness\nto spend money on any object that might be suggested to her by her\nnew acquaintances. It sometimes seemed that she had a commission from\nher husband to give away presents to any who would accept them. The\nworld had received the man as Augustus Melmotte, Esq. The world so\naddressed him on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so\ninscribed him among the directors of three dozen companies to which\nhe belonged. But his wife was still Madame Melmotte. The daughter had\nbeen allowed to take her rank with an English title. She was now Miss\nMelmotte on all occasions.\n\nMarie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to his\nmother. She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not a\nsaint. But then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, a\nsinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, very\nunlike her father or mother, having no trace of the Jewess in her\ncountenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own\nposition. With such people as the Melmottes things go fast, and it\nwas very well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover\nwho had been nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off.\nIn this \"going off\" no one imputed to the young lady blame or even\nmisfortune. It was not supposed that she had either jilted or been\njilted. As in royal espousals interests of State regulate their\nexpedience with an acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed\nimpossibility, of personal predilections, so in this case was money\nallowed to have the same weight. Such a marriage would or would not\nbe sanctioned in accordance with great pecuniary arrangements. The\nyoung Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie,\nhad offered to take the girl and make her Marchioness in the process\nof time for half a million down. Melmotte had not objected to the\nsum,--so it was said,--but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had\ndesired to have it free in his own grasp, and would not move on any\nother terms. Melmotte had been anxious to secure the Marquis,--very\nanxious to secure the Marchioness; for at that time terms had not\nbeen made with the Duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and\nhad asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would\nentrust such a sum of money to such a man. \"You are willing to trust\nyour only child to him,\" said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled at the man\nfor a few seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that\nhis answer had nothing in it, and marched out of the room. So that\naffair was over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word\nof love to Marie Melmotte,--or whether the poor girl had expected it.\nHer destiny had no doubt been explained to her.\n\nOthers had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same fashion.\nEach had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake,--at\na very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as\nprinces and duchesses were obtained by other means,--costly no doubt,\nbut not so ruinously costly,--the immediate disposition of Marie\nbecame less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl\nherself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had\nabsolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, whose father indeed was in a\nstate of bankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly,\nvicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself\nto a girl. She had had experience since Lord Nidderdale, with a half\nlaugh, had told her that he might just as well take her for his\nwife, and was now tempted from time to time to contemplate her own\nhappiness and her own condition. People around were beginning to say\nthat if Sir Felix Carbury managed his affairs well he might be the\nhappy man.\n\nThere was considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of that\nJewish-looking woman. Enquiries had been made, but not successfully,\nas to the date of the Melmotte marriage. There was an idea abroad\nthat Melmotte had got his first money with his wife, and had gotten\nit not very long ago. Then other people said that Marie was not his\ndaughter at all. Altogether the mystery was rather pleasant as the\nmoney was certain. Of the certainty of the money in daily use there\ncould be no doubt. There was the house. There was the furniture.\nThere were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery\ncoats and powdered heads, and the servants with the black coats and\nunpowdered heads. There were the gems, and the presents, and all the\nnice things that money can buy. There were two dinner parties every\nday, one at two o'clock called lunch, and the other at eight. The\ntradesmen had learned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in the\nCity Mr. Melmotte's name was worth any money,--though his character\nwas perhaps worth but little.\n\nThe large house on the south side of Grosvenor Square was all\nablaze by ten o'clock. The broad verandah had been turned into a\nconservatory, had been covered in with boards contrived to look like\ntrellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at\nsome fabulous price. A covered way had been made from the door, down\nacross the pathway, to the road, and the police had, I fear, been\nbribed to frighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound\nto go round. The house had been so arranged that it was impossible to\nknow where you were, when once in it. The hall was a paradise. The\nstaircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns.\nWalls had been knocked away and arches had been constructed. The\nleads behind had been supported and walled in, and covered and\ncarpeted. The ball had possession of the ground floor and first\nfloor, and the house seemed to be endless. \"It's to cost sixty\nthousand pounds,\" said the Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old\nfriend the Countess of Mid-Lothian. The Marchioness had come in spite\nof her son's misfortune when she heard that the Duchess of Stevenage\nwas to be there. \"And worse spent money never was wasted,\" said\nthe Countess. \"By all accounts it was as badly come by,\" said the\nMarchioness. Then the two old noblewomen, one after the other, made\ngraciously flattering speeches to the much-worn Bohemian Jewess, who\nwas standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting\nunder the greatness of the occasion.\n\nThe three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been\nprepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess\nhad however undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing\ngoing, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young\ngentleman who now frequented the City, to give directions to the band\nand to make himself generally useful. Indeed there had sprung up a\nconsiderable intimacy between the Grendall family,--that is Lord\nAlfred's branch of the Grendalls,--and the Melmottes; which was as\nit should be, as each could give much and each receive much. It was\nknown that Lord Alfred had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke\nand his sister was a duchess, and for the last thirty years there\nhad been one continual anxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had tumbled\ninto an unfortunate marriage without a shilling, had spent his own\nmoderate patrimony, had three sons and three daughters, and had lived\nnow for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions\nof his noble relatives. Melmotte could support the whole family in\naffluence without feeling the burden;--and why should he not? There\nhad once been an idea that Miles should attempt to win the heiress,\nbut it had soon been found expedient to abandon it. Miles had no\ntitle, no position of his own, and was hardly big enough for the\nplace. It was in all respects better that the waters of the fountain\nshould be allowed to irrigate mildly the whole Grendall family;--and\nso Miles went into the city.\n\nThe ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the\neldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. Various arrangements\nhad been made, and this among them. We may say that it had been part\nof a bargain. Lord Buntingford had objected mildly, being a young man\ndevoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and not given\nto dancing. But he had allowed his mother to prevail. \"Of course they\nare vulgar,\" the Duchess had said,--\"so much so as to be no longer\ndistasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say he\nhasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know\nhow they can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose.\nIt's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do\nabout Alfred's children? Miles is to have £500 a-year. And then he is\nalways about the house. And between you and me they have got up those\nbills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it\nsuits your uncle to pay them.\"\n\n\"They will lie there a long time,\" said Lord Buntingford.\n\n\"Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl\nonce.\" Lord Buntingford disapproved--mildly, and did as his mother\nasked him.\n\nThe affair went off very well. There were three or four card-tables\nin one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred\nGrendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting\nin and out at the end of each rubber. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's\nonly accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He\nbegan it daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing\ntill two in the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his\ndinner. This he did during ten months of the year, and during the\nother two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed.\nHe did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and\nbets. He gave to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled\nthose who were generally opposed to him. But so obdurate was fortune\nto Lord Alfred that he could not make money even of whist. Melmotte\nwas very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club,--The Peripatetics.\nIt was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and\nthe sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred. Lord\nAlfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to kick\nhim. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was also the\nyounger, Lord Alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick him.\nLord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid uselessness,\nhad still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that\nhe would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor\nboys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And then Melmotte lost\nhis points so regularly, and paid his bets with such absolute good\nhumour! \"Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred,\" Melmotte\nsaid, as the two cut out together. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and\nfollowed his host; but as he went he almost made up his mind that on\nsome future day he would kick the man.\n\nLate in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury,\nand Henrietta Carbury was then standing by talking to one Mr. Paul\nMontague. Lady Carbury was also there. She was not well inclined\neither to balls or to such people as the Melmottes; nor was\nHenrietta. But Felix had suggested that, bearing in mind his\nprospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the invitation\nwhich he would cause to have sent to them. They did so; and then\nPaul Montague also got a card, not altogether to Lady Carbury's\nsatisfaction. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for\ntwo minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery\nfor the evening. She, however, was a woman who could do her duty and\nendure without complaint.\n\n\"It is the first great ball I ever was at in London,\" said Hetta\nCarbury to Paul Montague.\n\n\"And how do you like it?\"\n\n\"Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don't\nunderstand how it is that at these parties people do know each other,\nor whether they all go dancing about without knowing.\"\n\n\"Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced\nbackwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as\nthey like. If you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?\"\n\n\"I have danced with you,--twice already.\"\n\n\"Is there any law against dancing three times?\"\n\n\"But I don't especially want to dance,\" said Henrietta. \"I think\nI'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her.\"\nJust at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretched\ncondition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief.\n\nSir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round\nthroughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the\nmusic and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise\nmight be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack\nphysical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with\nan animation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not\nof thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And Marie\nMelmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all her\nheart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. She\nhad been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not dance\nwith them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale's arms,\nand had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. But she\nhad never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not\nbeen wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an\nidentity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should\nhave a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord\nNidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first\nshe had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious\nto her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on,\nout of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had\nbeen commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But\nshe did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury.\n\nIt was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of\nchanging the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which\nbelied altogether his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty\nand true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his\nheart,--or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing\nabout it. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could\nbe very successful. He had already nearly got beyond this with\nMarie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his\ndeficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be\nallowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him,\nshe thought that she would be contented.\n\n\"How well you dance,\" said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for\nspeaking.\n\n\"Do I?\" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little\nprettiness to her speech. \"I was never told so. But nobody ever told\nme anything about myself.\"\n\n\"I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the\nbeginning to the end.\"\n\n\"Ah,--but you don't know.\"\n\n\"I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell\nyou what you would like best in all the world.\"\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"Somebody that liked you best in all the world.\"\n\n\"Ah,--yes; if one knew who?\"\n\n\"How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?\"\n\n\"That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me\nbetter than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she\nsaid so. I should have to find it out.\"\n\n\"And if a gentleman told you so?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out.\nBut I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love,\noh, ten times better than myself.\"\n\n\"So should I.\"\n\n\"Have you no particular friend?\"\n\n\"I mean a girl whom I could love,--oh, ten times better than myself.\"\n\n\"Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix,\" said Miss Melmotte.\n\n\"I wonder whether that will come to anything?\" said Paul Montague to\nMiss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been\nwatching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening.\n\n\"You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things,\nMr. Montague.\"\n\n\"It would be a magnificent chance for him.\"\n\n\"To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because\nshe will have a great deal of money? He can't care for her\nreally,--because she is rich.\"\n\n\"But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no\nother condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but\nby being the husband of an heiress.\"\n\n\"What a dreadful thing to say!\"\n\n\"But isn't it true? He has beggared himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"And he will beggar you and your mother.\"\n\n\"I don't care about myself.\"\n\n\"Others do though.\" As he said this he did not look at her, but spoke\nthrough his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her.\n\n\"I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix.\"\n\n\"I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it\nwas his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to\nspend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I\nthink it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had\n£20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the\nworld.\" In saying this, however, Mr. Paul Montague showed himself\nunfit to gauge the opinion of the world. Whether Sir Felix be rich or\npoor, the world, evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine\nfellow.\n\nLady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining\nsolitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of\nMr. Ferdinand Alf. \"You here?\" she said.\n\n\"Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers.\"\n\n\"I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you.\"\n\n\"I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their\ndaughters without number. They expect Prince George!\"\n\n\"Do they?\"\n\n\"And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to\nhim in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes\nsince. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady\nCarbury?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest.\"\n\n\"I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending\nthousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all\nthey want in return is a little countenance.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to give it then?\"\n\n\"I am giving it them.\"\n\n\"Ah;--but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.' Do you mean to\ngive them that?\"\n\n\"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names\nand to record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host\nhimself that he should be kept out of the newspapers.\"\n\n\"Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?\" said the\nlady after a pause.\n\n\"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince.\nWhat will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're going\nto make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!\"\n\n\"Poor Prince!\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing\nto trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?\"\n\nPoor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room where\nMarie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once\nmade to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty.\nThe introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. Miles\nGrendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchess\nfollowed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on her\nlegs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed\nto take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, but\nthat was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In\ntwo minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his\naunt, the Duchess, as vis-a-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about\nthe middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take\nhis place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were still\npresent two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. Sir\nFelix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to\ndance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There\nwere four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was\nintended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the\n\"Evening Pulpit,\" in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter\nwas present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as\nthe dance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quite\nunderstand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for\nhim had so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably\nknew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or\nthe considerable subscription to St. George's Hospital which had been\nextracted from Mr. Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as\nthough the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear,\nand looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible.\nBut the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince\nsaid a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a\nreply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the\nwork of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for\nthe moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed\nto escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drank in\nthe presence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping\nthe presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself\ntill the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out\nthat glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by\nRoyal Highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and\ndisagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed\nthe affair very well. \"Bless my soul;--his Royal Highness come and\ngone!\" exclaimed Melmotte. \"You and my father were so fast at your\nwhist that it was impossible to get you away,\" said Miles. Melmotte\nwas not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it\nhad been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but\nalso that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have\neverything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he\nwould not quarrel with Miles, at any rate as yet.\n\n\n[Illustration: The Duchess followed with the male victim.]\n\n\n\"Have another rubber, Alfred?\" he said to Miles's father as the\ncarriages were taking away the guests.\n\nLord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment\nforgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were\nreceiving. \"Damn that kind of nonsense,\" he said. \"Call people by\ntheir proper names.\" Then he left the house without a further word\nto the master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte\nrequired from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially\nof Marie's conduct. \"Marie,\" Madame Melmotte said, \"had behaved well,\nbut had certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young\nmen.\" Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of \"Sir Carbury,\"\nexcept that he was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always\nopen, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp\nintelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and\nsequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter\neither an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself.\nSir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was\nin possession. He had discovered also that Sir Felix's son would\nin course of time also become Sir Felix. He was not therefore at\nthe present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to\nhis daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however,\nconceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girl in such\nwords as Felix had in truth used when they parted. \"You know who it\nis,\" he whispered, \"likes you better than any one else in the world.\"\n\n\"Nobody does;--don't, Sir Felix.\"\n\n\"I do,\" he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her\nface and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as a\nlesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He\ndid it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a\nsweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nAFTER THE BALL.\n\n\n\"It's weary work,\" said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with\nhis mother and sister.\n\n\"What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?\" said his\nmother.\n\n\"It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work.\nBy-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I go\nhome.\" So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the\ndriver.\n\n\"It is two o'clock, Felix,\" said his mother.\n\n\"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps;\nI had none.\"\n\n\"Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the\nmorning?\"\n\n\"I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night.\" Then he jumped\nout of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the\nBeargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think it\nmean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed his\nplay on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe\nowed him now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was\nalso in his debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club\nafter the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that\nhe had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So\nhe argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot\nwithin his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose\nreal money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid,\nyet he could not keep himself from the card-table.\n\nNeither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had\ngot up-stairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest\nto her heart at the moment. \"Do you think he gambles?\"\n\n\"He has got no money, mamma.\"\n\n\"I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though,\nfor him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles\neverything is lost.\"\n\n\"I suppose they all do play,--more or less.\"\n\n\"I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart,\nby his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey\nme. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son.\nBut my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as\nsoon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger.\"\n\n\"He has been so long his own master, mamma.\"\n\n\"Yes,--his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he\nwere but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul\nMontague.\"\n\n\"No, mamma;--that is unjust.\"\n\n\"He was always with you.\"\n\n\"I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I\ndanced with him twice.\" Her mother was seated, with both her hands up\nto her forehead, and shook her head. \"If you did not want me to speak\nto Paul you should not have taken me there.\"\n\n\"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I\nwant.\" Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night.\n\"I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London,\" she said, sobbing\nhysterically.\n\n\"Is it my fault, mamma?\"\n\n\"You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse,\nand I never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for\nmyself,--nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix\nnever thinks of me for a moment.\"\n\n\"I think of you, mamma.\"\n\n\"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you\nto refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man.\"\n\n\"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin\nvery much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma.\" Lady Carbury just\nallowed herself to be kissed, and then was left alone.\n\nAt eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men who\nhad just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The Beargarden\nwas so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to its\nbeing closed,--the only law being that it should not be opened before\nthree in the afternoon. A sort of sanction had, however, been given\nto the servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in\nthe morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be too\nheavy even for juvenile constitutions. The party consisted of Dolly\nLongestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury, and\nthe four had amused themselves during the last six hours with various\ninnocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had culminated\nduring the last half-hour with blind hookey. But during the whole\nnight Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been an\nexpressed opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would be\nboth profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of\nthe last two nights. The two men had played with the same object, and\nbeing young had shown their intention,--so that a certain feeling of\nhostility had been engendered. The reader is not to understand that\neither of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained\nany suspicion of foul play. But Felix had felt that Grendall and\nGrasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for\nsympathy and friendship. Dolly, however, was very tipsy.\n\nAt eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, though\nno money then passed. The ready-money transactions had not lasted\nlong through the night. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the\nfigures and scraps of paper which had been passed over to Carbury,\nwhen counted up, amounted to nearly £2,000. His lordship contested\nthe fact bitterly, but contested it in vain. There were his own\ninitials and his own figures, and even Miles Grendall, who was\nsupposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce the amount. Then\nGrendall had lost over £400 to Carbury,--an amount, indeed, that\nmattered little, as Miles could, at present, as easily have raised\n£40,000. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy\nair. Grasslough, also, was impecunious; but he had a father,--also\nimpecunious, indeed; but with them the matter would not be hopeless.\nDolly Longestaffe was so tipsy that he could not even assist in\nmaking up his own account. That was to be left between him and\nCarbury for some future occasion.\n\n\"I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night,\" said Miles.\n\n\"Certainly,--only one thing,\" answered Felix.\n\n\"What one thing?\"\n\n\"I think these things should be squared before we play any more!\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" said Grasslough angrily. \"Do you mean to\nhint anything?\"\n\n\"I never hint anything, my Grassy,\" said Felix. \"I believe when\npeople play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But\nI'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your\nrevenge to-night.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Miles.\n\n\"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough,\" said Felix. \"He is an old\nfriend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night,\nMr. Grendall.\"\n\n\"Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled\nbefore we begin again.\"\n\n\"A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to,\" said\nGrendall.\n\nThere was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good\nterms. Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if he\ncould realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again with\nhorses, servants, and all luxuries as before. If all were paid, he\nwould have over £3,000!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nROGER CARBURY AND PAUL MONTAGUE.\n\n\nRoger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property in\nSuffolk, was the head of the Carbury family. The Carburys had been in\nSuffolk a great many years,--certainly from the time of the War of\nthe Roses,--and had always held up their heads. But they had never\nheld them very high. It was not known that any had risen ever to\nthe honour of knighthood before Sir Patrick, going higher than that,\nhad been made a baronet. They had, however, been true to their\nacres and their acres true to them through the perils of civil wars,\nReformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and the head Carbury of\nthe day had always owned, and had always lived at, Carbury Hall. At\nthe beginning of the present century the squire of Carbury had been\na considerable man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of\nthe county. The income of the estate had sufficed to enable him to\nlive plenteously and hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout\nhunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when\nshe went avisiting. He had an old butler who had never lived anywhere\nelse, and a boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the\nbutler. There was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes,\nand a couple of young women;--while the house was kept by Mrs.\nCarbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own\npreserves, and looked to the curing of her own hams. In the year 1800\nthe Carbury property was sufficient for the Carbury house. Since that\ntime the Carbury property has considerably increased in value, and\nthe rents have been raised. Even the acreage has been extended by\nthe enclosure of commons. But the income is no longer comfortably\nadequate to the wants of an English gentleman's household. If a\nmoderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the\nquestion whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to\nhim wherewith to keep up the estate. Land is a luxury, and of all\nluxuries is the most costly. Now the Carburys never had anything but\nland. Suffolk has not been made rich and great either by coal or\niron. No great town had sprung up on the confines of the Carbury\nproperty. No eldest son had gone into trade or risen high in a\nprofession so as to add to the Carbury wealth. No great heiress had\nbeen married. There had been no ruin,--no misfortune. But in the days\nof which we write the Squire of Carbury Hall had become a poor man\nsimply through the wealth of others. His estate was supposed to bring\nhim in £2,000 a year. Had he been content to let the Manor House, to\nlive abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants,\nhe would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously. But he\nlived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys\nbefore him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich\nneighbours. The Longestaffes of Caversham,--of which family Dolly\nLongestaffe was the eldest son and hope,--had the name of great\nwealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of\nLondon and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne. The\nHepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had\nmarried into new money. The Primeros,--though the good nature of the\ncountry folk had accorded to the head of them the title of Squire\nPrimero,--had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought\nthe Bundlesham property from a great duke. The estates of those three\ngentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all around\nthe Carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their owners\naltogether to overshadow our squire. The superior wealth of a bishop\nwas nothing to him. He desired that bishops should be rich, and was\namong those who thought that the country had been injured when the\nterritorial possessions of our prelates had been converted into\nstipends by Act of Parliament. But the grandeur of the Longestaffes\nand the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did oppress him, though\nhe was a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into\nthe ear even of his dearest friend. It was his opinion,--which he\ndid not care to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be\nhis opinion by those with whom he lived intimately,--that a man's\nstanding in the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. The\nPrimeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although\nthe young Primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of\npheasants annually at about 10_s_. a head. Hepworth of Eardly was a\nvery good fellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties\nas a country gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with\nCarbury of Carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy £7,000 a year.\nThe Longestaffes were altogether oppressive. Their footmen, even in\nthe country, had powdered hair. They had a house in town,--a house\nof their own,--and lived altogether as magnates. The lady was Lady\nPomona Longestaffe. The daughters, who certainly were handsome, had\nbeen destined to marry peers. The only son, Dolly, had, or had had,\na fortune of his own. They were an oppressive people in a country\nneighbourhood. And to make the matter worse, rich as they were,\nthey never were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. They\ncontinued to live with all the appurtenances of wealth. The girls\nalways had horses to ride, both in town and country. The acquaintance\nof Dolly the reader has already made. Dolly, who certainly was a poor\ncreature though good natured, had energy in one direction. He would\nquarrel perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest\nin the estate. The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven\nmonths, of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all\nthe tradesmen in the little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and\nHarlestone, were aware that the Longestaffes were the great people\nof that country. Though occasionally much distressed for money,\nthey would always execute the Longestaffe orders with submissive\npunctuality, because there was an idea that the Longestaffe property\nwas sound at the bottom. And, then, the owner of a property so\nmanaged cannot scrutinise bills very closely.\n\nCarbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay,\nor his father before him. His orders to the tradesmen at Beccles were\nnot extensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied were\nneither overcharged nor unnecessary. The tradesmen, consequently, of\nBeccles did not care much for Carbury of Carbury;--though perhaps one\nor two of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence\nfor the family. Roger Carbury, Esq., was Carbury of Carbury,--a\ndistinction of itself, which, from its nature, could not belong to\nthe Longestaffes and Primeros, which did not even belong to the\nHepworths of Eardly. The very parish in which Carbury Hall stood,--or\nCarbury Manor House, as it was more properly called,--was Carbury\nparish. And there was Carbury Chase, partly in Carbury parish and\npartly in Bundlesham,--but belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety\nto the Bundlesham estate.\n\nRoger Carbury himself was all alone in the world. His nearest\nrelatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they were no\nmore than second cousins. He had sisters, but they had long since\nbeen married and had gone away into the world with their husbands,\none to India, and another to the far west of the United States. At\npresent he was not much short of forty years of age, and was still\nunmarried. He was a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square\nface, with features finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and\nwell-formed chin. His hair was red, curling round his head, which\nwas now partly bald at the top. He wore no other beard than small,\nalmost unnoticeable whiskers. His eyes were small, but bright, and\nvery cheery when his humour was good. He was about five feet nine in\nheight, having the appearance of great strength and perfect health.\nA more manly man to the eye was never seen. And he was one with\nwhom you would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good\nterms,--partly because in looking at him there would come on you an\nunconscious conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own\nagainst his opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong,\nthat he would be very pleasant to his friends.\n\nWhen Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger\nCarbury had hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him\nall kindness. Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like to\ngo down to the old place in the country? Sir Patrick did not care\na straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin\nin almost those very words. There had not, therefore, been much\nfriendship during Sir Patrick's life. But when the violent\nill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and\nagain offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,--and to the\nyoung baronet. The young baronet had just joined his regiment and\ndid not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and\nHenrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to\nmake them happy. The effort as regarded Henrietta had been altogether\nsuccessful. As regarded the widow, it must be acknowledged that\nCarbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes. She had already begun\nto sigh for the glories of a literary career. A career of some\nkind,--sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of her early\nlife,--she certainly desired. \"Dear cousin Roger,\" as she called him,\nhad not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her in these\nviews. She was a woman who did not care much for country charms.\nShe had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the\nbishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for\nher. The Primeros had been odious; the Hepworths stupid; the\nLongestaffes,--she had endeavoured to make up a little friendship\nwith Lady Pomona,--insufferably supercilious. She had declared to\nHenrietta \"that Carbury Hall was very dull.\"\n\nBut then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her\nopinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor. The proprietor\nafter a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a most\nmatter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. He was at\nthat time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet twenty. He was very\ncool;--some might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making.\nHenrietta declared to her mother that she had not in the least\nexpected it. But he was very urgent, and very persistent. Lady\nCarbury was eager on his side. Though the Carbury Manor House did not\nexactly suit her, it would do admirably for Henrietta. And as for\nage, to her thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six\nwas young enough for any girl. But Henrietta had an opinion of her\nown. She liked her cousin, but did not love him. She was amazed, and\neven annoyed by the offer. She had praised him and praised the house\nso loudly to her mother,--having in her innocence never dreamed of\nsuch a proposition as this,--so that now she found it difficult to\ngive an adequate reason for her refusal. Yes;--she had undoubtedly\nsaid that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in\nthat way. She did refuse the offer very plainly, but still with some\napparent lack of persistency. When Roger suggested that she should\ntake a few months to think of it, and her mother supported Roger's\nsuggestion, she could say nothing stronger than that she was afraid\nthat thinking about it would not do any good. Their first visit to\nCarbury had been made in September. In the following February she\nwent there again,--much against the grain as far as her own wishes\nwere concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost\ndumb in the presence of her cousin. Before they left the offer was\nrenewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not do as they would\nhave her. She could give no reason, only she did not love her cousin\nin that way. But Roger declared that he by no means intended to\nabandon his suit. In truth he verily loved the girl, and love with\nhim was a serious thing. All this happened a full year before the\nbeginning of our present story.\n\nBut something else happened also. While that second visit was being\nmade at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom Roger\nCarbury had said much to his cousins,--one Paul Montague, of whom\nsome short account shall be given in this chapter. The squire,--Roger\nCarbury was always called the squire about his own place,--had\nanticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins\nto his house that they must of necessity meet Paul Montague there.\nBut great harm had come of it. Paul Montague had fallen into love\nwith his cousin's guest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness.\n\nLady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and\nPaul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thus\nspoke to the guest who had last arrived. \"I've got to tell you\nsomething, Paul.\"\n\n\"Anything serious?\"\n\n\"Very serious to me. I may say so serious that nothing in my own\nlife can approach it in importance.\" He had unconsciously assumed\nthat look, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating his\nresolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight if\nfighting be necessary. Montague knew him well, and became half aware\nthat he had done something, he knew not what, militating against this\nserious resolve of his friend. He looked up, but said nothing. \"I\nhave offered my hand in marriage to my cousin Henrietta,\" said Roger\nvery gravely.\n\n\"Miss Carbury?\"\n\n\"Yes; to Henrietta Carbury. She has not accepted it. She has refused\nme twice. But I still have hopes of success. Perhaps I have no right\nto hope, but I do. I tell it you just as it is. Everything in life to\nme depends upon it. I think I may count upon your sympathy.\"\n\n\"Why did you not tell me before?\" said Paul Montague in a hoarse\nvoice.\n\nThen there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking\nbetween the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of\nthem declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by\nthe other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally\nunreasonable. Montague at once asserted that he also loved Henrietta\nCarbury. He blurted out his assurance in the baldest and most\nincomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no doubt.\nNo;--he had not said a word to her. He had intended to consult Roger\nCarbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on\nthat very day had not Roger spoken to him. \"You have neither of you\na shilling in the world,\" said Roger; \"and now you know what my\nfeelings are you must abandon it.\" Then Montague declared that he\nhad a right to speak to Miss Carbury. He did not suppose that Miss\nCarbury cared a straw about him. He had not the least reason to think\nthat she did. It was altogether impossible. But he had a right to his\nchance. That chance was all the world to him. As to money,--he would\nnot admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he might earn an\nincome as well as other men. Had Carbury told him that the young\nlady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, Carbury's,\naddresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene.\nBut as it was not so, he would not say that he would abandon his\nhope.\n\nThe scene lasted for above an hour. When it was ended, Paul Montague\npacked up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway station\nby Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. There had been\nvery hot words between the men, but the last words which Roger spoke\nto the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in their\nnature. \"God bless you, old fellow,\" he said, pressing Paul's hands.\nPaul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the\npressure.\n\nPaul Montague's father and mother had long been dead. The father had\nbeen a barrister in London, having perhaps some small fortune of his\nown. He had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others,\na sufficiency with which to begin the world. Paul when he had come\nof age had found himself possessed of about £6,000. He was then at\nOxford, and was intended for the bar. An uncle of his, a younger\nbrother of his father, had married a Carbury, the younger sister\nof two, though older than her brother Roger. This uncle many years\nsince had taken his wife out to California, and had there become an\nAmerican. He had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and\nfruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not always\nbeen plain to the Montagues and Carburys at home. The intercourse\nbetween the two families had in the quite early days of Paul\nMontague's life, created an affection between him and Roger, who, as\nwill be understood by those who have carefully followed the above\nfamily history, were not in any degree related to each other. Roger,\nwhen quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education,\nand had sent him to Oxford. But the Oxford scheme, to be followed by\nthe bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of the\ncountry, had not succeeded. Paul had got into a \"row\" at Balliol, and\nhad been rusticated,--had then got into another row, and was sent\ndown. Indeed he had a talent for rows,--though, as Roger Carbury\nalways declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them.\nPaul was then twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to\nCalifornia, and joined his uncle. He had perhaps an idea,--based on\nvery insufficient grounds,--that rows are popular in California. At\nthe end of three years he found that he did not like farming life in\nCalifornia,--and he found also that he did not like his uncle. So he\nreturned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to get\nhis £6,000 out of the Californian farm. Indeed he had been compelled\nto come away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take\nhim home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his\nuncle that an income amounting to ten per cent. upon his capital\nshould be remitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. The\nclock alluded to must have been one of Sam Slick's. It had gone\nvery badly. At the end of the first quarter there came the proper\nremittance;--then half the amount;--then there was a long interval\nwithout anything; then some dropping payments now and again;--and\nthen a twelvemonth without anything. At the end of that twelvemonth\nhe paid a second visit to California, having borrowed money from\nRoger for his journey. He had now again returned, with some little\ncash in hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in\nhis favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership\nwith his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's\nconcerns. In accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per cent.\non his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his name\nput up as one of the firm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague, and\nMontague. A business declared by the two elder partners to be most\npromising had been opened at Fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty\nmiles from San Francisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the elder\nMontague were very high. Paul hated Fisker horribly, did not love his\nuncle much, and would willingly have got back his £6,000 had he been\nable. But he was not able, and returned as one of Fisker, Montague,\nand Montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in\nobtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed to Roger, and\nto live for a few months. He was intent on considering how he should\nbestow himself, consulting daily with Roger on the subject, when\nsuddenly Roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached\nto the girl whom he himself loved. What then occurred has been told.\n\nNot a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real\ncause of Paul's sudden disappearance. It had been necessary that he\nshould go to London. Each of the ladies probably guessed something\nof the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject.\nBefore they left the Manor the squire again pleaded his cause with\nHenrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. Henrietta was colder than\never,--but she made use of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all\nthe effect which her coldness might have had. She said that she was\ntoo young to think of marrying yet. She had meant to imply that the\ndifference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to\nsay it. It was easy to tell her that in a twelvemonth she would be\nolder;--but it was impossible to convince her that any number of\ntwelvemonths would alter the disparity between her and her cousin.\nBut even that disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling\nsure that she could not marry Roger Carbury.\n\nWithin a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor House,\nPaul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. He had\npromised before he went that he would not see Henrietta again for\nthree months, but he would promise nothing further. \"If she won't\ntake you, there is no reason why I shouldn't try.\" That had been\nhis argument. Roger would not accede to the justice even of this.\nIt seemed to him that Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly\nbecause he had got no income, partly because of Roger's previous\nclaim,--partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason Roger\nnever said a word. If Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not\nsuch a man as his friend had taken him to be.\n\nPaul did see it himself, and had many scruples. But why should his\nfriend be a dog in the manger? He would yield at once to Roger\nCarbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of them. Indeed\nhe could have no chance if the girl were disposed to take Roger for\nher husband. Roger had all the advantage of Carbury Manor at his\nback, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business\nof Fisker, Montague, and Montague, in a wretched little town 250\nmiles further off than San Francisco! But if, with all this, Roger\ncould not prevail, why should he not try? What Roger said about want\nof money was mere nonsense. Paul was sure that his friend would have\ncreated no such difficulty had not he himself been interested. Paul\ndeclared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and\nthat he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.\n\nHe came up to London at various times in search of certain employment\nwhich had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the\nthree months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her daughter. But from\ntime to time he had given renewed promises to Roger Carbury that\nhe would not declare his passion,--now for two months, then for\nsix weeks, then for a month. In the meantime the two men were fast\nfriends,--so fast that Montague spent by far the greater part of\nhis time as his friend's guest,--and all this was done with the\nunderstanding that Roger Carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath\nshould Paul ever receive the privilege to call himself Henrietta\nCarbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth\nbetween them should Henrietta be persuaded to become the mistress of\nCarbury Hall. So things went on up to the night at which Montague\nmet Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball. The reader should also be\ninformed that there had been already a former love affair in the\nyoung life of Paul Montague. There had been, and indeed there still\nwas, a widow, one Mrs. Hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious\nto marry before his second journey to California;--but the marriage\nhad been prevented by the interference of Roger Carbury.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nMENTOR.\n\n\nLady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was\ngreatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. Since\nRoger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad to\nworse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment.\nIf her daughter could but be settled in the world, Lady Carbury said\nto herself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her\nson. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But\nshe did know that she had paid so much money for him, and would have\nso much more extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that\nshe would be unable to keep a home for her daughter. In all these\ntroubles she constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice,--which,\nhowever, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her\nhouse in town, to find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also\nfor Felix if he would consent to follow her. Should he not so\nconsent, then let the young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings.\nDoubtless, when he could no longer get bread in London he would find\nher out. Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet,--or\nseemed to Lady Carbury to be severe.\n\nBut, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might\nfollow it. She had plans in her head with which she knew that Roger\nwould not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom\nand burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a\ngreat heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was proud of him in\nthat anticipation. When he succeeded in obtaining from her money, as\nin the case of that £20,--when, with brazen-faced indifference to her\nremonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning, when\nwith impudent drollery he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his\ndebts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep\nhysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping. But could he\nmarry Miss Melmotte, and thus conquer all his troubles by means of\nhis own personal beauty,--then she would be proud of all that had\npassed. With such a condition of mind Roger Carbury could have no\nsympathy. To him it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed\nmoney to a tradesman which he could not pay. And Lady Carbury's heart\nwas high with other hopes,--in spite of her hysterics and her fears.\nThe \"Criminal Queens\" might be a great literary success. She almost\nthought that it would be a success. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, the\npublishers, were civil to her. Mr. Broune had promised. Mr. Booker\nhad said that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from\nMr. Alf's caustic and cautious words that the book would be noticed\nin the \"Evening Pulpit.\" No;--she would not take dear Roger's advice\nas to leaving London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice.\nMen like to have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would\narrange the marriage. What country retirement could be so suitable\nfor a Lady Carbury when she wished to retire for awhile,--as Carbury\nManor, the seat of her own daughter? And then her mind would fly away\ninto regions of bliss. If only by the end of this season Henrietta\ncould be engaged to her cousin, Felix be the husband of the richest\nbride in Europe, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest\nbook of the year, what a Paradise of triumph might still be open to\nher after all her troubles! Then the sanguine nature of the woman\nwould bear her up almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be\nhappy, in spite of everything.\n\nA few days after the ball Roger Carbury was up in town, and was\ncloseted with her in her back drawing-room. The declared cause\nof his coming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and the\nindispensable necessity,--so Roger thought,--of taking some steps by\nwhich at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought\nto an end. It was horrible to him that a man who had not a shilling\nin the world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing and never\nthought of earning anything, should have hunters! He was very much in\nearnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his mind to the young\nman himself,--if he could get hold of him. \"Where is he now, Lady\nCarbury;--at this moment?\"\n\n\"I think he's out with the Baron.\" Being \"out with the Baron\" meant\nthat the young man was hunting with the stag hounds some forty miles\naway from London.\n\n\"How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for\nthem?\"\n\n\"Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do to prevent it?\"\n\n\"I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he\ncontinues in such courses.\"\n\n\"My own son!\"\n\n\"Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed\nto ruin you, and Hetta? It can't go on long.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't have me throw him over.\"\n\n\"I think he is throwing you over. And then it is so thoroughly\ndishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on\nfrom day to day. I suppose you don't supply him with ready money.\"\n\n\"He has had a little.\"\n\nRoger frowned angrily. \"I can understand that you should provide him\nwith bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by\ngiving him money.\" This was very plain speaking, and Lady Carbury\nwinced under it. \"The kind of life that he is leading requires a\nlarge income of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with\nall I have in the world I could not do it myself.\"\n\n\"You are so different.\"\n\n\"I am older of course,--very much older. But he is not so young that\nhe should not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you\ngive him?\"\n\nThen Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun to\nentertain during the last day or two. \"I think he has been playing.\"\n\n\"That is the way to lose money,--not to get it,\" said Roger.\n\n\"I suppose somebody wins,--sometimes.\"\n\n\"They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would\nsooner that he were a fool than a knave.\"\n\n\"O Roger, you are so severe!\"\n\n\"You say he plays. How would he pay, were he to lose?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about it. I don't even know that he does play; but\nI have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at\nhis command. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of\nhours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and\ndid not wake him. There were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever\nso much.\"\n\n\"Why did you not take them?\"\n\n\"What; rob my own boy?\"\n\n\"When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay\nyour own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you!\nWhy does he not repay you what he has borrowed?\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were\npapers there;--I. O. U.'s, signed by other men.\"\n\n\"You looked at them.\"\n\n\"I saw as much as that. It is not that I am curious, but one does\nfeel about one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A\ngroom came here and said something about it to the servants.\"\n\n\"Oh dear;--oh dear!\"\n\n\"If you could only induce him to stop the gambling! Of course it is\nvery bad whether he wins or loses,--though I am sure that Felix would\ndo nothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money,\nit would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for,\nto tell the truth, I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can\nsay that I spend it on myself.\"\n\nThen Roger again repeated his advice. There could be no use in\nattempting to keep up the present kind of life in Welbeck Street.\nWelbeck Street might be very well without a penniless spendthrift\nsuch as Sir Felix, but must be ruinous under the present conditions.\nIf Lady Carbury felt, as no doubt she did feel, bound to afford a\nhome to her ruined son in spite of all his wickedness and folly, that\nhome should be found far away from London. If he chose to remain in\nLondon, let him do so on his own resources. The young man should make\nup his mind to do something for himself. A career might possibly be\nopened for him in India. \"If he be a man he would sooner break stones\nthan live on you,\" said Roger. Yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow\nand speak to him;--that is if he could possibly find him. \"Young men\nwho gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily found.\" But\nhe would come at twelve as Felix generally breakfasted at that hour.\nThen he gave an assurance to Lady Carbury which to her was not the\nleast comfortable part of the interview. In the event of her son not\ngiving her the money which she at once required he, Roger, would lend\nher a hundred pounds till her half year's income should be due. After\nthat his voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on another\nsubject, \"Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Certainly;--why not? She is at home now, I think.\"\n\n\"I will wait till to-morrow,--when I call to see Felix. I should like\nher to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other\nday. He was here, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes;--he called.\"\n\n\"Was that all you saw of him?\"\n\n\"He was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him;--and we\nwere there. Has he gone down to Carbury?\"\n\n\"No;--not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners\nat Liverpool. There is another case of a young man without anything\nto do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix.\" This he was induced\nto say by the spirit of honesty which was always strong within him.\n\n\"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix,\" said Lady Carbury. Roger, as he\ntook his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard\nupon Sir Felix Carbury.\n\nThe next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was\nup, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger was\ncoming to lecture him. \"What the Devil's the use of it?\" said Felix\nfrom beneath the bedclothes.\n\n\"If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room.\"\n\n\"But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he has got to\nsay just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons\nto good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who\nain't good.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't you be good?\"\n\n\"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. I\ncan play my hand better than he can play it for me. If you'll go now\nI'll get up.\" She had intended to ask him for some of the money which\nshe believed he still possessed, but her courage failed her. If she\nasked for his money, and took it, she would in some fashion recognise\nand tacitly approve his gambling. It was not yet eleven, and it was\nearly for him to leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get\nout of the house before that horrible bore should be upon him with\nhis sermon. To do this he must be energetic. He was actually eating\nhis breakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in\nhis mind how he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into\nthe street,--towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would\ncertainly not come. He left the house at ten minutes before twelve,\ncunningly turned away, dodging round by the first corner,--and just\nas he had turned it encountered his cousin. Roger, anxious in regard\nto his errand, with time at his command, had come before the hour\nappointed and had strolled about, thinking not of Felix but of\nFelix's sister. The baronet felt that he had been caught,--caught\nunfairly, but by no means abandoned all hope of escape. \"I was going\nto your mother's house on purpose to see you,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Were you indeed? I am so sorry. I have an engagement out here with a\nfellow which I must keep. I could meet you at any other time, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"You can come back for ten minutes,\" said Roger, taking him by the\narm.\n\n\"Well;--not conveniently at this moment.\"\n\n\"You must manage it. I am here at your mother's request, and can't\nafford to remain in town day after day looking for you. I go down\nto Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along.\" His\nfirmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake\nhis cousin off violently, and to go his way. But as he returned\nhe fortified himself with the remembrance of all the money in his\npocket,--for he still had his winnings,--remembered too certain sweet\nwords which had passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball,\nand resolved that he would not be \"sat upon\" by Roger Carbury. The\ntime was coming,--he might almost say that the time had come,--in\nwhich he might defy Roger Carbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the words\nwhich were now to be spoken to him with a craven fear.\n\n\"Your mother tells me,\" said Roger, \"that you still keep hunters.\"\n\n\"I don't know what she calls hunters. I have one that I didn't part\nwith when the others went.\"\n\n\"You have only one horse?\"\n\n\"Well;--if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the horse\nI ride.\"\n\n\"And another up here in town?\"\n\n\"Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying at\nsome stables which has been sent for me to look at.\"\n\n\"Who pays for all these horses?\"\n\n\"At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them.\"\n\n\"No;--you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in\nasking your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to\nother friends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of\nyour own, and now you are ruining her.\"\n\n\"That isn't true. I have money of my own.\"\n\n\"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\"This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any\nright to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can\npay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe\na lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, and\nyou needn't frighten yourself.\"\n\n\"Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when you\nhave money not pay it back to her?\"\n\n\"She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that.\"\n\n\"I mean that, and a good deal more than that. I suppose you have been\ngambling.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I\nwon't do it. If you have nothing else to say, I'll go about my own\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"I have something else to say, and I mean to say it.\" Felix had\nwalked towards the door, but Roger was before him, and now leaned his\nback against it.\n\n\"I am not going to be kept here against my will,\" said Felix.\n\n\"You have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still. Do you wish\nto be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?\"\n\n\"Oh,--go on.\"\n\n\"That is what it will be. You have spent every shilling of your\nown,--and because your mother is affectionate and weak, you are now\nspending all that she has, and are bringing her and your sister to\nbeggary.\"\n\n\"I don't ask them to pay anything for me.\"\n\n\"Not when you borrow her money?\"\n\n\"There is the £20. Take it and give it her,\" said Felix, counting the\nnotes out of the pocket-book. \"When I asked her for it, I did not\nthink she would make such a row about such a trifle.\" Roger took up\nthe notes and thrust them into his pocket. \"Now, have you done?\" said\nFelix.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"There's the £20.\"]\n\n\n\"Not quite. Do you purpose that your mother should keep you and\nclothe you for the rest of your life?\"\n\n\"I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much better\nthan it has ever been done before. The truth is, Roger, you know\nnothing about it. If you'll leave me to myself, you'll find that I\nshall do very well.\"\n\n\"I don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less\nmoral conception of what is right and wrong.\"\n\n\"Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't all\nthink alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go.\"\n\nRoger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he hardly\nknew how to get it said. And of what use could it be to talk to a\nyoung man who was altogether callous and without feeling? The remedy\nfor the evil ought to be found in the mother's conduct rather than\nthe son's. She, were she not foolishly weak, would make up her mind\nto divide herself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and\nto leave him to suffer utter penury. That would bring him round. And\nthen when the agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to\ntake bread and meat from her hand and would be humble. At present he\nhad money in his pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and\nbe free from inconvenience for the moment. While this prosperity\nremained it would be impossible to touch him. \"You will ruin your\nsister, and break your mother's heart,\" said Roger, firing a last\nharmless shot after the young reprobate.\n\nWhen Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the\nfront door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a\ngreat success had been achieved because the £20 had been recovered.\n\"I knew he would give it me back, if he had it,\" she said.\n\n\"Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?\"\n\n\"I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he got\nit by--playing?\"\n\n\"No,--he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. You may\ntake it for granted that he did get it by gambling. How else should\nhe have it? And you may take it for granted also that he will lose\nall that he has got. He talked in the wildest way,--saying that he\nwould soon have a home for you and Hetta.\"\n\n\"Did he;--dear boy!\"\n\n\"Had he any meaning?\"\n\n\"Oh; yes. And it is quite on the cards that it should be so. You have\nheard of Miss Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here,\nand who is buying his way into society.\"\n\n\"Everybody visits them now, Roger.\"\n\n\"More shame for everybody. Who knows anything about him,--except that\nhe left Paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue?\nBut what of him?\"\n\n\"Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is\nhandsome; isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? They\nsay she'll have half a million of money.\"\n\n\"That's his game;--is it?\"\n\n\"Don't you think he is right?\"\n\n\"No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree with each other\nabout that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nLOVE-SICK.\n\n\nRoger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and\nhis cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the\nexpedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that\nthey should ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect\nof a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy\nand triumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should\nbe rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a\npenal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealth\neven in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace,\nand Lady Carbury would find reasons why \"poor Marie\" should not be\npunished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money which\nthose sins had produced. But how different were the existing facts?\nMr. Melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses\nin Grosvenor Square. People said that Mr. Melmotte had a reputation\nthroughout Europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in the\ndishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing.\nPeople said of him that he had framed and carried out long\npremeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those who\nhad trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all who\nhad come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of\nwidows and children;--but what was all this to Lady Carbury? If the\nduchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish? People\nalso said that Melmotte would yet get a fall,--that a man who had\nrisen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up. But he\nmight keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune. And\nthen Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so exactly the young man\nwho ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury there was no second way\nof looking at the matter.\n\nAnd to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it.\nThat condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world,\nis often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces\npeople to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside\nthe general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever\nthe world shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashioned\nidea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him.\nHe was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter\nthe house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchesses\nin the peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions\nor induce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would be\nuseless for him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however,\nthat one of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference\nbetween honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a\nhigher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free\nfrom soil. As for Felix,--he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be\ndirt all over. Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a\nlife could cleanse him.\n\nHe found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. \"Have you seen Felix?\"\nshe said, as soon as they had greeted each other.\n\n\"Yes. I caught him in the street.\"\n\n\"We are so unhappy about him.\"\n\n\"I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that your\nmother indulges him foolishly.\"\n\n\"Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on.\"\n\n\"Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The fact\nis that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on.\"\n\n\"What can mamma do?\"\n\n\"Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf.\"\n\n\"What would Felix do in the country?\"\n\n\"If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does\nin town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!\"\n\n\"It seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of such\nimportance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence over\nyour mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has not\nthe slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that;\nbut I am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family.\"\n\n\"I am sure you are.\"\n\n\"Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over.\"\n\n\"You would not ask me to throw him over.\"\n\n\"But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already been\ntaken into the house of that man Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind,\"\nsaid Henrietta, drawing herself up.\n\n\"Pardon me if I seem to interfere.\"\n\n\"Oh, no;--it is no interference from you.\"\n\n\"Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is done\nto you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man.\nWhy does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him;\nnot because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply\nbecause there is a rich daughter.\"\n\n\"Everybody goes there, Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"Yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficient\nreason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place to\nwhich we are told that a great many are going, simply because the\nroad has become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling that\nyou ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own?\nI admit there is one reason here. They have a great deal of money,\nand it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely\nswearing to a girl that he loves her. After what you have heard, are\nthe Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A\nsocial connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less\nobjectionable.\" He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was\nhimself altogether unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed,\nand his nostrils were extended. Of course she thought of his own\noffer to herself. Of course her mind at once conceived,--not that the\nMelmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure\nthat she would never accept his offer,--but that he might think that\nhe would be so affected. Of course she resented the feeling which she\nthus attributed to him. But, in truth, he was much too simple-minded\nfor any such complex idea. \"Felix,\" he continued, \"has already\ndescended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what\nhouses he may frequent. But I should be sorry to think that you\nshould often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's.\"\n\n\"I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not taken\nwhere I ought not to be taken.\"\n\n\"I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for\nyou.\"\n\n\"I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not.\"\n\n\"I am old-fashioned, Hetta.\"\n\n\"And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it is\nso. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you\ncan change us now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were\nhardly fit for each other.\"\n\n\"I have thought that you and I were,--or possibly might be fit for\neach other.\"\n\n\"Oh,--as for me, I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses\nto go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that is\ncontamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm\nto consider myself better than any one else.\"\n\n\"I have always thought that you were better than any one else.\"\n\n\"That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have altered\nyour opinion now. Indeed, you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr.\nCarbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours.\"\n\nHe looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive\nthe working of her mind. He was so true himself that he did not\nunderstand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured\ntinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm.\nCould she really have thought that he was attending to his own\npossible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new\nacquaintances?\n\n\"For myself,\" he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain\neffort to get hold of hers, \"I have only one wish in the world; and\nthat is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you\nought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When\nI spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of\nmyself?\"\n\n\"Oh no;--how should I?\"\n\n\"I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an\nelder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you\nother to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even were\nyou in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--it\nwould be the same. I love you so well that I have already taken you\nfor better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn\nfor such changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me?\" She turned\naway her head, but did not answer him at once. \"Do you understand how\nmuch I am in need of comfort?\"\n\n\"You can do very well without comfort from me.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well.\nAs it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody,\nand ill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at any\nrate, when I say I love you.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean something.\"\n\n\"I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That is\nit. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic\njoy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the\nother. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be\nmarried to some one else.\"\n\n\"What can I say, Mr. Carbury?\"\n\n\"That you will love me.\"\n\n\"But if I don't?\"\n\n\"Say that you will try.\"\n\n\"No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. I\ndon't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I\nlike you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing.\"\n\n\"It would not be terrible to me, dear.\"\n\n\"Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes.\"\n\n\"I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this,--that if\nyou promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?\"\n\n\"I suppose I may promise that,\" she said, after pausing for a moment.\n\n\"There is no one as yet?\"\n\n\"There is no one. But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me.\nI don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else\ncould say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so\nmuch. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any\none.\"\n\n\"Are you angry with me?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly.\"\n\n\"I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman.\nI don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody all\nthat happens.\"\n\n\"Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it\nyou will forgive me. Good-bye now.\" She put out her hand to him and\nallowed it to remain in his for a moment. \"When I walk about the old\nshrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am always\nasking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the\nmistress.\"\n\n\"There is no chance.\"\n\n\"I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, and\nmay God bless you.\"\n\nThe man had no poetry about him. He did not even care for romance.\nAll the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men\nand which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they\nreally relish, were nothing to him. There are both men and women to\nwhom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming, even\nwhen they exist to the detriment of hope. It is sweet to such persons\nto be melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now\nwretched after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and\nheroines of whose sufferings they have read in poetry. But there was\nnothing of this with Roger Carbury. He had, as he believed, found\nthe woman that he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now,\nhaving fixed his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing\nlonging. He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life\nhad become indifferent to him without her. No man in England could\nbe less likely to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his\nbrains. But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this\nsorrow. He could not make one thing bear upon another, so as to\nconsole himself after any fashion. There was but one thing for\nhim;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her.\nAnd should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it would\nbe, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man.\n\nHe felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved that\nother, younger man. That she had never owned to such love he was\nquite sure. The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured him\non this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone\nto believe. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her,\nand that it was Paul's intention to cling to his love. Sorrowfully\nlooking forward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw\nthat Henrietta would become Paul's wife. Were it so, what should he\ndo? Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world\nwas concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity,\nand their joys? Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though\nthe agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him?\nShould he do this, and be blessed by them,--or should he let Paul\nMontague know what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce?\nWhen had a father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother,\nthan he had been to Paul? His home had been the young man's home, and\nhis purse the young man's purse. What right could the young man have\nto come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of\nall that he had in the world? He was conscious all the while that\nthere was a something wrong in his argument,--that Paul when he\ncommenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,--that\nthe girl, though Paul had never come in the way, might probably have\nbeen as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties. He knew all this\nbecause his mind was clear. But yet the injustice,--at any rate, the\nmisery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it would be\nweak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury did not quite believe in\nthe forgiveness of injuries. If you pardon all the evil done to you,\nyou encourage others to do you evil! If you give your cloak to him\nwho steals your coat, how long will it be before your shirt and\ntrousers will go also? Roger Carbury returned that afternoon to\nSuffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the journey, he\nresolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul Montague\nshould become his cousin's husband.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE GREAT RAILWAY TO VERA CRUZ.\n\n\n\"You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about\nas good as done.\" These words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasal\ntwang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in one of the\nsmartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at Liverpool, and\nthey were addressed to a young Englishman who was sitting opposite\nto him. Between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules,\nand printed programmes. The American was smoking a very large cigar,\nwhich he kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which\nwas inside his teeth. The Englishman had a short pipe. Mr. Hamilton\nK. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, was the\nAmerican, and the Englishman was our friend Paul, the junior member\nof that firm.\n\n\"But I didn't even speak to him,\" said Paul.\n\n\"In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you\nin introducing me. We are not going to ask your friend to do us a\nfavour. We don't want to borrow money.\"\n\n\"I thought you did.\"\n\n\"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would\nbe no borrowing then. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say,\nbecause he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars\nout of it. If he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in\nSan Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in\nwith him at once, because they know that he understands the game and\nhas got the pluck. A man who has done what he has by financing in\nEurope,--by George! there's no limit to what he might do with us.\nWe're a bigger people than any of you and have more room. We go after\nbigger things, and don't stand shilly-shally on the brink as you do.\nBut Melmotte pretty nigh beats the best among us. Anyway he should\ncome and try his luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer\nthing than this. He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for\nhalf an hour.\"\n\n\"Mr. Fisker,\" said Paul mysteriously, \"as we are partners, I think\nI ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr.\nMelmotte's honesty.\"\n\nMr. Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his mouth,\nand then closed one eye. \"There is always a want of charity,\" he\nsaid, \"when a man is successful.\"\n\nThe scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central\nPacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from the Salt Lake\nCity, thus branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago\nline,--and pass down through the fertile lands of New Mexico and\nArizona, into the territory of the Mexican Republic, run by the city\nof Mexico, and come out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr.\nFisker admitted at once that it was a great undertaking, acknowledged\nthat the distance might be perhaps something over 2,000 miles,\nacknowledged that no computation had or perhaps could be made as to\nthe probable cost of the railway; but seemed to think that questions\nsuch as these were beside the mark and childish. Melmotte, if he\nwould go into the matter at all, would ask no such questions.\n\nBut we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegram\nfrom his partner, Hamilton K. Fisker, sent on shore at Queenstown\nfrom one of the New York liners, requesting him to meet Fisker at\nLiverpool immediately. With this request he had felt himself bound to\ncomply. Personally he had disliked Fisker,--and perhaps not the less\nso because when in California he had never found himself able to\nresist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness combined. He\nhad found himself talked into agreeing with any project which Mr.\nFisker might have in hand. It was altogether against the grain with\nhim, and yet by his own consent, that the flour-mill had been opened\nat Fiskerville. He trembled for his money and never wished to see\nFisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he was proud\nto remember that Fisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and\nwent down to Liverpool.\n\nIf the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project\nhave done! Fisker explained that he had come with two objects,--first\nto ask the consent of the English partner to the proposed change in\ntheir business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of English\ncapitalists. The proposed change in the business meant simply the\nentire sale of the establishment at Fiskerville, and the absorption\nof the whole capital in the work of getting up the railway. \"If you\ncould realise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway,\"\nsaid Paul. Mr. Fisker laughed at him. The object of Fisker, Montague,\nand Montague was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float\na company. Paul thought that Mr. Fisker seemed to be indifferent\nwhether the railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly\nhis idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a\nspadeful of earth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes\nmight avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little\npictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and\ncoming out of them on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr. Fisker had\ncertainly done much. But Paul, when he saw all these pretty things,\ncould not keep his mind from thinking whence had come the money to\npay for them. Mr. Fisker had declared that he had come over to obtain\nhis partner's consent, but it seemed to that partner that a great\ndeal had been done without any consent. And Paul's fears on this hand\nwere not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he\nhimself was described as one of the agents and general managers of\nthe company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague.\nReferences on all matters were to be made to Fisker, Montague, and\nMontague,--and in one of the documents it was stated that a member\nof the firm had proceeded to London with the view of attending to\nBritish interests in the matter. Fisker had seemed to think that his\nyoung partner would express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness\nwhich was thus falling upon him. A certain feeling of importance,\nnot altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there\nwas another conviction forced upon Montague's mind, not altogether\npleasant, that his money was being made to disappear without any\nconsent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest\nsuch consent should be extracted from him unawares.\n\n\"What has become of the mill?\" he asked.\n\n\"We have put an agent into it.\"\n\n\"Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?\"\n\n\"He pays us a fixed sum, sir. But, my word! when there is such a\nthing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking\nof.\"\n\n\"You haven't sold it?\"\n\n\"Well;--no. But we've arranged a price for a sale.\"\n\n\"You haven't taken the money for it?\"\n\n\"Well;--yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you\nweren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm.\nBut Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed.\"\n\n\"And about my own income?\"\n\n\"That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't\nmatter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand\ndollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States\nGovernment through the territories, and we're in correspondence with\nthe President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an office\nopen already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz.\"\n\n\"Where's the money to come from?\"\n\n\"Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from\nin all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll\ncome in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock\nourselves.\"\n\n\"Six hundred thousand pounds!\" said Montague.\n\n\"We take them at par, of course,--and as we sell we shall pay for\nthem. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run\nthem up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars.\nBut we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once.\nYou had better write a letter now.\"\n\n\"I don't know the man.\"\n\n\"Never mind. Look here--I'll write it, and you can sign it.\"\nWhereupon Mr. Fisker did write the following letter:--\n\n\n   Langham Hotel, London.\n   March 4, 18--.\n\n   DEAR SIR,--I have the pleasure of informing you that my\n   partner, Mr. Fisker,--of Fisker, Montague, and Montague,\n   of San Francisco,--is now in London with the view of\n   allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying out\n   perhaps the greatest work of the age,--namely, the South\n   Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give\n   direct communication between San Francisco and the Gulf\n   of Mexico. He is very anxious to see you upon his arrival,\n   as he is aware that your co-operation would be desirable.\n   We feel assured that with your matured judgment in such\n   matters you would see at once the magnificence of the\n   enterprise. If you will name a day and an hour, Mr. Fisker\n   will call upon you.\n\n   I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very\n   pleasant evening spent at your house last week.\n\n   Mr. Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain\n   here, superintending the British interests which may be\n   involved.\n\n   I have the honour to be,\n   Dear Sir,\n   Most faithfully yours,\n\n   ---- ----.\n\n\n\"But I have never said that I would superintend the interests,\" said\nMontague.\n\n\"You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John Bull\nEnglishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as\nshould serve to make an additional fortune.\"\n\nAfter some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter\nand signed it. He did it with doubt,--almost with dismay. But he\ntold himself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretched\nAmerican, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had so\nfar got the upper hand of Paul's uncle as to have been allowed to do\nwhat he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stop\nit. On the following morning they went up to London together, and in\nthe course of the afternoon Mr. Fisker presented himself in Abchurch\nLane. The letter written at Liverpool, but dated from the Langham\nHotel, had been posted at the Euston Square Railway Station at the\nmoment of Fisker's arrival. Fisker sent in his card, and was asked to\nwait. In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great\nman's presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall.\n\nIt has been already said that Mr. Melmotte was a big man with large\nwhiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on\na harsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his\npresence unless attracted to him by some internal consideration.\nHe was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings,\nsuccessful in his business, and the world around him therefore\nwas not repelled. Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little\nman,--perhaps about forty years of age, with a well-twisted\nmoustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at the top,\ngood-looking if his features were analysed, but insignificant\nin appearance. He was gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat\nand chains, and he carried a little stick. One would at first be\ninclined to say that Fisker was not much of a man; but after a little\nconversation most men would own that there was something in Fisker.\nHe was troubled by no shyness, by no scruples, and by no fears. His\nmind was not capacious, but such as it was it was his own, and he\nknew how to use it.\n\nAbchurch Lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchant\nprince. Here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass plate\non a swing door, bearing the words \"Melmotte & Co.\" Of whom the Co.\nwas composed no one knew. In one sense Mr. Melmotte might be said\nto be in company with all the commercial world, for there was no\nbusiness to which he would refuse his co-operation on certain terms.\nBut he had never burthened himself with a partner in the usual sense\nof the term. Here Fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks,\nand was desired to walk up-stairs. The steps were narrow and crooked,\nand the rooms were small and irregular. Here he stayed for a while in\na small dark apartment in which \"The Daily Telegraph\" was left for\nthe amusement of its occupant till Miles Grendall announced to him\nthat Mr. Melmotte would see him. The millionaire looked at him for a\nmoment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand\nwhich Fisker had projected.\n\n\"I don't seem to remember,\" he said, \"the gentleman who has done me\nthe honour of writing to me about you.\"\n\n\"I dare say not, Mr. Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco,\nI make acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't remember\nafterwards. My partner I think told me that he went to your house\nwith his friend, Sir Felix Carbury.\"\n\n\"I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury.\"\n\n\"That's it. I could have got any amount of introductions to you if I\nhad thought this would not have sufficed.\" Mr. Melmotte bowed. \"Our\naccount here in London is kept with the City and West End Joint\nStock. But I have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming\nto London is to see you, and as I met my partner, Mr. Montague, in\nLiverpool, I took a note from him and came on straight.\"\n\n\"And what can I do for you, Mr. Fisker?\"\n\nThen Mr. Fisker began his account of the Great South Central Pacific\nand Mexican Railway, and exhibited considerable skill by telling it\nall in comparatively few words. And yet he was gorgeous and florid.\nIn two minutes he had displayed his programme, his maps, and his\npictures before Mr. Melmotte's eyes, taking care that Mr. Melmotte\nshould see how often the names of Fisker, Montague, and Montague,\nreappeared upon them. As Mr. Melmotte read the documents, Fisker\nfrom time to time put in a word. But the words had no reference at\nall to the future profits of the railway, or to the benefit which\nsuch means of communication would confer upon the world at large;\nbut applied solely to the appetite for such stock as theirs, which\nmight certainly be produced in the speculating world by a proper\nmanipulation of the affairs.\n\n\n[Illustration: Then Mr. Fisker began his account.]\n\n\n\"You seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own country,\"\nsaid Melmotte.\n\n\"There's not a doubt about getting it all taken up there. Our folk,\nsir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want me to teach\nyou, Mr. Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like\ncompetition. When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that the thing\nis alive in London, they'll be alive there. And it's the same here,\nsir. When they know that the stock is running like wildfire in\nAmerica, they'll make it run here too.\"\n\n\"How far have you got?\"\n\n\"What we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the line\nfrom the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing,\nof course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the\nstations to be twenty-five miles apart.\"\n\n\"And the land is to be made over to you,--when?\"\n\n\"When we have made the line up to the station.\" Fisker understood\nperfectly that Mr. Melmotte did not ask the question in reference to\nany value that he might attach to the possession of such lands, but\nto the attractiveness of such a prospectus in the eyes of the outside\nworld of speculators.\n\n\"And what do you want me to do, Mr. Fisker?\"\n\n\"I want to have your name there,\" he said. And he placed his finger\ndown on a spot on which it was indicated that there was, or was to\nbe, a chairman of an English Board of Directors, but with a space for\nthe name, hitherto blank.\n\n\"Who are to be your directors here, Mr. Fisker?\"\n\n\"We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr. Paul Montague should be\none, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. We\ncould get probably one of the Directors of the City and West End. But\nwe would leave it all to you,--as also the amount of stock you would\nlike to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul,\nMr. Melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out\nfor a long time. There would be such a mass of stock!\"\n\n\"You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?\"\n\n\"We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too closely\nby old-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, by\nhaving our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across the\ncontinent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at--\"\n\n\"Never mind that, Mr. Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to\nSan Francisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to Vera Cruz.\nBut I will look at it, and you shall hear from me.\" The interview\nwas over, and Mr. Fisker was contented with it. Had Mr. Melmotte not\nintended at least to think of it he would not have given ten minutes\nto the subject. After all, what was wanted from Mr. Melmotte was\nlittle more than his name, for the use of which Mr. Fisker proposed\nthat he should receive from the speculative public two or three\nhundred thousand pounds.\n\nAt the end of a fortnight from the date of Mr. Fisker's arrival\nin London, the company was fully launched in England, with a body\nof London directors, of whom Mr. Melmotte was the chairman. Among\nthe directors were Lord Alfred Grendall, Sir Felix Carbury, Samuel\nCohenlupe, Esq., Member of Parliament for Staines, a gentleman of\nthe Jewish persuasion, Lord Nidderdale, who was also in Parliament,\nand Mr. Paul Montague. It may be thought that the directory was not\nstrong, and that but little help could be given to any commercial\nenterprise by the assistance of Lord Alfred or Sir Felix;--but it was\nfelt that Mr. Melmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that\nthe fortune of the company,--as a company,--was made.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nMR. FISKER'S SUCCESS.\n\n\nMr. Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but\nhe never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the whole\ntransaction. Mr. Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact\nin the commercial world of London, that it was no longer possible for\nsuch a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte\nhad the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as close\ninquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake City had been suburbs\nof London. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and\nhad had shares allocated to him,--or as he said to the house,--to the\nextent of two millions of dollars. But still there was a feeling of\ndoubt, and a consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength,\nwas thought by many to have been built upon the sands.\n\nPaul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much\nin opposition to the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury,--and\nhad come up to live in town, that he might personally attend to\nthe affairs of the great railway. There was an office just behind\nthe Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary, the latter\nposition being held by Miles Grendall, Esq. Paul, who had a\nconscience in the matter and was keenly alive to the fact that he was\nnot only a director but was also one of the firm of Fisker, Montague,\nand Montague which was responsible for the whole affair, was\ngrievously anxious to be really at work, and would attend most\ninopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker, who still lingered in\nLondon, did his best to put a stop to this folly, and on more than\none occasion somewhat snubbed his partner. \"My dear fellow, what's\nthe use of your flurrying yourself? In a thing of this kind, when it\nhas once been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. You may have\nto work your fingers off before you can make it move, and then fail.\nBut all that has been done for you. If you go there on the Thursdays\nthat's quite as much as you need do. You don't suppose that such\na man as Melmotte would put up with any real interference.\" Paul\nendeavoured to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers\nhe meant to take a part in the management;--that his fortune, such as\nit was, had been embarked in the matter, and was as important to him\nas was Mr. Melmotte's fortune to Mr. Melmotte. But Fisker got the\nbetter of him and put him down. \"Fortune! what fortune had either of\nus? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and\nbarely sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise. And now\nwhere are you? Look here, sir;--there's more to be got out of the\nsmashing up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up, than\ncould be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as yours and\nmine in the regular way of trade.\"\n\nPaul Montague certainly did not love Mr. Fisker personally, nor did\nhe relish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be\ncarried away by them. \"When and how was I to have helped myself?\" he\nwrote to Roger Carbury. \"The money had been raised and spent before\nthis man came here at all. It's all very well to say that he had no\nright to do it; but he had done it. I couldn't even have gone to law\nwith him without going over to California, and then I should have\ngot no redress.\" Through it all he disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker\nhad one great merit which certainly recommended itself warmly to\nMontague's appreciation. Though he denied the propriety of Paul's\ninterference in the business, he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a\nshare in the existing dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the\nmoney affairs of the firm he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well\nprovided with money himself, and took care that his partner should be\nin the same position. He paid him all the arrears of his stipulated\nincome up to the present moment, and put him nominally into\npossession of a large number of shares in the railway,--with,\nhowever, an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had\nreached ten per cent. above par, and that in any sale transacted he\nwas to touch no other money than the amount of profit which would\nthus accrue. What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares,\nhe never heard. As far as Montague could understand, Melmotte was in\ntruth to be powerful over everything. All this made the young man\nunhappy, restless, and extravagant. He was living in London and had\nmoney at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that\nthe whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he\nmight be stigmatised as one among a gang of swindlers.\n\nWe all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater proportion\nof a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that are offered\nto him and the lesser proportion to the cares, sacrifices, and\nsorrows. Had this young director been describing to his intimate\nfriend the condition in which he found himself, he would have\ndeclared himself to be distracted by doubts, suspicions, and fears\ntill his life was a burden to him. And yet they who were living with\nhim at this time found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of\namusement, and disposed to make the most of all the good things which\ncame in his way. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had\nbecome a member of the Beargarden, at which best of all possible\nclubs the mode of entrance was as irregular as its other proceedings.\nWhen any young man desired to come in who was thought to be unfit\nfor its style of living, it was shown to him that it would take\nthree years before his name could be brought up at the usual rate\nof vacancies; but in regard to desirable companions the committee\nhad a power of putting them at the top of the list of candidates and\nbringing them in at once. Paul Montague had suddenly become credited\nwith considerable commercial wealth and greater commercial influence.\nHe sat at the same Board with Melmotte and Melmotte's men; and was on\nthis account elected at the Beargarden without any of that harassing\ndelay to which other less fortunate candidates are subjected.\n\nAnd,--let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart\nhonest and well-conditioned,--he took to living a good deal at the\nBeargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that a man\ndines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. It was thus he reasoned\nwith himself. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He\nsaw a good deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and Lord\nNidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred more than once at the club, and\nhad twice dined with his great chairman amidst all the magnificence\nof merchant-princely hospitality in Grosvenor Square. It had indeed\nbeen suggested to him by Mr. Fisker that he also ought to enter\nhimself for the great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again\ndeclared his intention of running, owing to considerable pressure put\nupon him by certain interested tradesmen, and with this intention\nhad become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. At\nthe time, however, of which we are now writing, Sir Felix was the\nfavourite for the race among fashionable circles generally.\n\nThe middle of April had come, and Fisker was still in London. When\nmillions of dollars are at stake,--belonging perhaps to widows\nand orphans, as Fisker remarked,--a man was forced to set his own\nconvenience on one side. But this devotion was not left without\nreward, for Mr. Fisker had \"a good time\" in London. He also was made\nfree of the Beargarden, as an honorary member, and he also spent\na good deal of money. But there is this comfort in great affairs,\nthat whatever you spend on yourself can be no more than a trifle.\nChampagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or\nlose thousands,--with this only difference, that champagne may have\ndeteriorating results which the more innocent beverage will not\nproduce. The feeling that the greatness of these operations relieved\nthem from the necessity of looking to small expenses operated in the\nchampagne direction, both on Fisker and Montague, and the result was\ndeleterious. The Beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place than\nCarbury Manor, but Montague found that he could not wake up on these\nLondon mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attended\nhis pillow at the old Manor House.\n\nOn Saturday, the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London on his\nreturn to New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given\nto him at the club. Mr. Melmotte was asked to meet him, and on such\nan occasion all the resources of the club were to be brought forth.\nLord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr. Cohenlupe, who\nwent about a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague,\nand Miles Grendall were members of the club, and gave the dinner. No\nexpense was spared. Herr Vossner purveyed the viands and wines,--and\npaid for them. Lord Nidderdale took the chair, with Fisker on his\nright hand, and Melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going young\nlord, was supposed to have done the thing well. There were only two\ntoasts drunk, to the healths of Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Fisker, and two\nspeeches were of course made by them. Mr. Melmotte may have been held\nto have clearly proved the genuineness of that English birth which\nhe claimed by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on the\noccasion. He stood with his hands on the table and with his face\nturned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of\nthis railway company would be one of the greatest and most successful\ncommercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic.\nIt was a great thing,--a very great thing;--he had no hesitation in\nsaying that it was one of the greatest things out. He didn't believe\na greater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humble\nassistance to the furtherance of so great a thing,--and so on. These\nassertions, not varying much one from the other, he jerked out like\nso many separate interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in\nthe face at each, and then turning his countenance back to his plate\nas though seeking for inspiration for the next attempt. He was not\neloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was the\ngreat Augustus Melmotte, that he might probably make them all rich\nmen, and they cheered him to the echo. Lord Alfred had reconciled\nhimself to be called by his Christian name, since he had been put in\nthe way of raising two or three hundred pounds on the security of\nshares which were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh\nhe had as yet seen nothing. Wonderful are the ways of trade! If one\ncan only get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie,\nwhat noble morsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is\nextracted!\n\nWhen Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent,\nfast, and florid. Without giving it word for word, which would be\ntedious, I could not adequately set before the reader's eye the\nspeaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmony\nwhich was to be produced by a railway from Salt Lake City to Vera\nCruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at large\nwhich might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the\ngreat firms of Melmotte & Co. of London, and Fisker, Montague, and\nMontague of San Francisco. Mr. Fisker's arms were waved gracefully\nabout. His head was turned now this way and now that, but never\ntowards his plate. It was very well done. But there was more faith\nin one ponderous word from Mr. Melmotte's mouth than in all the\nAmerican's oratory.\n\nThere was not one of them then present who had not after some fashion\nbeen given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not by\nthe construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway\nshares. They had all whispered to each other their convictions on\nthis head. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he\nwas really a director in a company to be employed in the making and\nworking of a railway. People out of doors were to be advertised into\nbuying shares, and they who were so to say indoors were to have the\nprivilege of manufacturing the shares thus to be sold. That was to\nbe their work, and they all knew it. But now, as there were eight of\nthem collected together, they talked of humanity at large and of the\ncoming harmony of nations.\n\nAfter the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went with\nhim. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain, being a man who enjoyed\ntobacco and soda and brandy,--but momentous days had come upon him,\nand he thought it well to cling to his Melmotte. Mr. Samuel Cohenlupe\nalso went, not having taken a very distinguished part in the\nentertainment. Then the young men were left alone, and it was soon\nproposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. It had been rather\nhoped that Fisker would go with the elders. Nidderdale, who did not\nunderstand much about the races of mankind, had his doubts whether\nthe American gentleman might not be a \"Heathen Chinee,\" such as he\nhad read of in poetry. But Mr. Fisker liked to have his amusement\nas well as did the others, and went up resolutely into the cardroom.\nHere they were joined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly at\nwork, having chosen loo as their game. Mr. Fisker made an allusion to\npoker as a desirable pastime, but Lord Nidderdale, remembering his\npoetry, shook his head. \"Oh! bother,\" he said, \"let's have some game\nthat Christians play.\" Mr. Fisker declared himself ready for any\ngame,--irrespective of religious prejudices.\n\nIt must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone\non with very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix\nCarbury kept his luck. There had of course been vicissitudes, but\nhis star had been in the ascendant. For some nights together this\nhad been so continual that Mr. Miles Grendall had suggested to his\nfriend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough,\nwho had not many good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and\nrepudiated the idea. \"We'll keep an eye on him,\" Miles Grendall had\nsaid. \"You may do as you like, but I'm not going to watch any one,\"\nGrasslough had replied. Miles had watched, and had watched in vain,\nand it may as well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his\nfaults, was not as yet a blackleg. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a\nconsiderable sum of money, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not\npresent on this occasion. Latterly very little ready money had passed\nhands,--very little in proportion to the sums which had been written\ndown on paper,--though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to\nfeel himself justified in repudiating any caution that his mother\nmight give him.\n\nWhen I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company as\nthat now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very\ndisagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for\nSan Francisco on the following morning. If it could be arranged\nthat the stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be\nregarded as a godsend. Such strangers have ready money in their\npockets, a portion of which would be felt to descend like a soft\nshower in a time of drought. When these dealings in unsecured paper\nhave been going on for a considerable time real bank notes come to\nhave a loveliness which they never possessed before. But should the\nstranger win, then there may arise complications incapable of any\ncomfortable solution. In such a state of things some Herr Vossner\nmust be called in, whose terms are apt to be ruinous. On this\noccasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. From the\nvery commencement Fisker won, and quite a budget of little papers\nfell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the\nhands of Sir Felix,--bearing, however, a \"G\" intended to stand for\nGrasslough, or an \"N\" for Nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic\nwhich was known at the Beargarden to mean D. L----, or Dolly\nLongestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion.\nThen there was the M. G. of Miles Grendall, which was a species of\npaper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercial\noccasions. Paul Montague hitherto had never given an I.O.U. at\nthe Beargarden,--nor of late had our friend Sir Felix. On the\npresent occasion Montague won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost\ncontinually, and was almost the only loser. But Mr. Fisker won nearly\nall that was lost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8.30\nA.M., and at 6 A.M. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself\nthe winner of about £600. \"I think that most of them came from you,\nSir Felix,\" he said,--handing the bundle across the table.\n\n\"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other\nfellows.\" Then Fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted one\nfrom the mass which indicated Dolly Longestaffe's indebtedness to the\namount of £50. \"That's Longestaffe,\" said Felix, \"and I'll change\nthat of course.\" Then out of his pocket-book he extracted other\nminute documents bearing that M. G. which was so little esteemed\namong them,--and so made up the sum. \"You seem to have £150 from\nGrasslough, £145 from Nidderdale, and £322 10_s._ from Grendall,\"\nsaid the baronet. Then Sir Felix got up as though he had paid his\nscore. Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of\npaper before him and looked round upon the company.\n\n\"This won't do, you know,\" said Nidderdale. \"Mr. Fisker must have his\nmoney before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury.\"\n\n\"Of course he has,\" said Grasslough.\n\n\"As it happens I have not,\" said Sir Felix;--\"but what if I had?\"\n\n\"Mr. Fisker starts for New York immediately,\" said Lord Nidderdale.\n\"I suppose we can muster £600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner.\nI think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't\nexpect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way.\"\n\n\"Lord Nidderdale,\" said Sir Felix, \"I have already said that I have\nnot got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you,\nespecially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet\nanything I could lose when I sat down?\"\n\n\"Mr. Fisker must have his money at any rate,\" said Lord Nidderdale,\nringing the bell again.\n\n\"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord,\" said the American. \"Let it be\nsent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord.\" And so he got up to take\nhis hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.\n\nBut the two young lords would not agree to this. \"If you must go\nthis very minute I'll meet you at the train with the money,\" said\nNidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Of\ncourse he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair was\none of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day? Then Herr\nVossner came from his bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, and\nthere was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and\nMr. Grendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque\nfor the amount due by the lords, but he was afraid that he had not\nmoney at his banker's sufficient for the greater claim. It was well\nunderstood that Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr. Grendall\nunless others would pledge themselves for the amount.\n\n\"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America,\" said Miles\nGrendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in\nthe same boat with the lords.\n\n\"Just so. My partner, Montague, will tell you the address.\" Then\nbustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of Paul, shaking hands\nwith them all round, and looking as though he cared nothing for the\nmoney, he took his leave. \"One cheer for the South Central Pacific\nand Mexican Railway,\" he said as he went out of the room.\n\nNot one there had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their\nmanners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. He smoked his cigar\nafter a fashion different from theirs, and spat upon the carpet. He\nsaid \"my lord\" too often, and grated their prejudices equally whether\nhe treated them with familiarity or deference. But he had behaved\nwell about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly.\nSir Felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood\nthat he was not entitled to pay a stranger with documents which, by\ntacit contract, were held to be good among themselves. But there was\nno use now in going back to that. Something must be done.\n\n\"Vossner must get the money,\" said Nidderdale. \"Let's have him up\nagain.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's my fault,\" said Miles. \"Of course no one thought\nhe was to be called upon in this sort of way.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't you be called upon?\" said Carbury. \"You acknowledge\nthat you owe the money.\"\n\n\"I think Carbury ought to have paid it,\" said Grasslough.\n\n\"Grassy, my boy,\" said the baronet, \"your attempts at thinking are\nnever worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be\nplaying among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you\nhad lost it? I don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in my\npocket;--nor do you!\"\n\n\"It's no good jawing,\" said Nidderdale; \"let's get the money.\" Then\nMontague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there\nwere money transactions between him and his partner. But this could\nnot be allowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no\ndealing in I.O.U.'s, and was the last man in the company who ought\nto be made responsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He,\nthe impecunious one,--the one whose impecuniosity extended to the\nabsolute want of credit,--sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache.\n\nThere was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two\nlords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document\nby which Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner £450 at\nthe end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords,\nby Sir Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the\nGerman produced £322 10_s._ in notes and gold. This had taken some\nconsiderable time. Then a cup of tea was prepared and swallowed;\nafter which Nidderdale, with Montague, started off to meet Fisker at\nthe railway station. \"It'll only be a trifle over £100 each,\" said\nNidderdale, in the cab.\n\n\"Won't Mr. Grendall pay it?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?\"\n\n\"Then he shouldn't play.\"\n\n\"That 'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the\nduke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right\nfor you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make\nit square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!\"\n\nThey found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and\ngreatcoats with silk linings. \"We've brought you the tin,\" said\nNidderdale, accosting him on the platform.\n\n\"Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble\nabout such a trifle.\"\n\n\"A man should always have his money when he wins.\"\n\n\"We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my\nlord.\"\n\n\"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up,--when we\ncan. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant.\" Fresh adieus\nwere made between the two partners, and between the American and the\nlord;--and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco. \"He's\nnot half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman,\" said\nLord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nLADY CARBURY AT HOME.\n\n\nDuring the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixed\ndepression and elevation. Her great work had come out,--the \"Criminal\nQueens,\"--and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had\nbeen by no means all pleasure, in as much as many very hard words had\nbeen said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and\nMr. Alf, one of Mr. Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been\nset upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid\nmalignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly\nhave been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error\nwas laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the\narticle must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing\nout the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts\nwhich had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being\nfamiliar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years\nold. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he\nhimself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and\nhaving learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a\nmoment's notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the\nblunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a\nhousekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the\ncoal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady,\nand the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended\nto show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him\nalways. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his\nname was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was always\nthere at the command of Mr. Alf,--and his cruelty. The greatness of\nMr. Alf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr. Jones or two\nready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr.\nAlf's, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, for\npoetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones,\nextraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references,\nentirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.\n\nThere is the review intended to sell a book,--which comes out\nimmediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before\nit; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale,\nand which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out\nquietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single\npeg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to\nmake an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberant\nJones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush\na man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he\nhas accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the\nmost popular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroad\nthat some notable man has been actually crushed,--been positively\ndriven over by an entire Juggernaut's car of criticism till his\nliterary body be a mere amorphous mass,--then a real success has been\nachieved, and the Alf of the day has done a great thing; but even\nthe crushing of a poor Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective.\nSuch a review will not make all the world call for the \"Evening\nPulpit,\" but it will cause those who do take the paper to be\nsatisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a\npaper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of\ncourse, admonish their Alf to add a little power to the crushing\ndepartment.\n\nLady Carbury had been crushed by the \"Evening Pulpit.\" We may fancy\nthat it was easy work, and that Mr. Alf's historical Mr. Jones\nwas not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books\nof reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface; and\nthe whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by\npretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in\nMr. Jones's very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly\ncrushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour\nor two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to\nher publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the senior\npartner, Mr. Leadham. \"I've got it all in black and white,\" she said,\nfull of the wrong which had been done her, \"and can prove him to\nbe wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he\ncouldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the\n'Biographie Universelle.' I'll write to Mr. Alf myself,--a letter to\nbe published, you know.\"\n\n\"Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"I can prove that I'm right.\"\n\n\"And they can prove that you're wrong.\"\n\n\"I've got all the facts,--and the figures.\"\n\nMr. Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures,--had no\nopinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but\nhe knew very well that the \"Evening Pulpit\" would surely get the\nbetter of any mere author in such a contention. \"Never fight the\nnewspapers, Lady Carbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by that\nkind of thing? It's their business, and you are not used to it.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Alf is my particular friend! It does seem so hard,\" said\nLady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.\n\n\"It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"It'll stop the sale?\"\n\n\"Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you\nknow. The 'Breakfast Table' gave it an excellent lift, and came just\nat the right time. I rather like the notice in the 'Pulpit,' myself.\"\n\n\"Like it!\" said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of\nher self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut's\ncar-wheels.\n\n\"Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many\npeople remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry\naway nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very good\nadvertisement.\"\n\n\"But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history,--after\nworking as I have worked!\"\n\n\"That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"You think the book has done pretty well?\"\n\n\"Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know.\"\n\n\"There'll be something coming to me, Mr. Leadham?\"\n\nMr. Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up\na few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something,\nbut Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. It\ndid not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book.\nNevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, did\ncarry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very\nwell, and had smiled on Mr. Leadham. Mr. Leadham, too, was no more\nthan man, and had written--a small cheque.\n\nMr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune of\nthe \"Breakfast Table,\" and Mr. Booker of the \"Literary Chronicle,\"\nhad been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised,\n\"done\" Mr. Booker's \"New Tale of a Tub\" in the \"Breakfast Table.\"\nThat is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr.\nBroune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve,\nand suggesting to Mr. Broune that no one understood her so well\nas he did, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very\nthoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. What had been said\nabout his work in the \"Breakfast Table\" had been very distasteful to\npoor Mr. Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that\nsuch rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience\nof life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he\nmust pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become\naccustomed. So Mr. Booker himself wrote the article on the \"Criminal\nQueens\" in the \"Literary Chronicle,\" knowing that what he wrote\nwould also be rubbish. \"Remarkable vivacity.\" \"Power of delineating\ncharacter.\" \"Excellent choice of subject.\" \"Considerable intimacy\nwith the historical details of various periods.\" \"The literary world\nwould be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again.\" The composition of the\nreview, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether\nperhaps an hour of Mr. Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the\npages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this\nkind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could\nhave reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the\nwork was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt\nit to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies\nof his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not\noccur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that\nhe was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no\nother honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. \"If I\ndidn't, somebody else would,\" he said to himself.\n\nBut the review in the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" was the making of\nLady Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr. Broune saw the\nlady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of\nthis Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been\nfully performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work,\nand the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of\namusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury's\n\"Criminal Queens.\" It was the very book that had been wanted for\nyears. It was a work of infinite research and brilliant imagination\ncombined. There had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint.\nAt that last meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome,\nand very winning; Mr. Broune had given the order with good will, and\nit had been obeyed in the same feeling.\n\nTherefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also\nbeen some elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed to\nthink that her literary career might yet be a success. Mr. Leadham's\ncheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the\nway to something better. People at any rate were talking about\nher, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full. But her\nliterary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr.\nBroune, her business with Mr. Booker, and her crushing by Mr. Alf's\nMr. Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life of\nhers of which the absorbing interest was her son. And with regard to\nhim too she was partly depressed, and partly elated, allowing her\nhopes however to dominate her fears. There was very much to frighten\nher. Even the moderate reform in the young man's expenses which had\nbeen effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Though\nhe never told her anything, she became aware that during the last\nmonth of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew,\ntoo, that he had a horse up in town. She never saw him but once in\nthe day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware\nthat he was always at his club throughout the night. She knew that\nhe was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes\nthe most dangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for his\nimmediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted\nwith a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to\ntrouble her in Welbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she\nconsoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. But\nher elation sprung from a higher source than this. From all that she\ncould hear, she thought it likely that Felix would carry off the\ngreat prize; and then,--should he do that,--what a blessed son would\nhe have been to her! How constantly in her triumph would she be able\nto forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and\nhis cruel treatment of herself! As she thought of it the bliss seemed\nto be too great for the possibility of realisation. She was taught to\nunderstand that £10,000 a year, to begin with, would be the least of\nit; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make\nSir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England. In her very heart\nof hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather than\nfor herself. Then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and she\nwas lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had already\nnearly engulfed her in his own ruin.\n\nAnd she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much,\nthough elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She had\ndiscovered that her son had become a Director of the South Central\nPacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known,--she\ncertainly did know,--that Felix, such as he was, could not lend\nassistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the\nworld. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choice\nhidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood.\nA ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life\nsince he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice and\nfolly,--whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regarding\nhim as one incapable of knowing what principle is,--of what service\ncould he be, that he should be made a Director? But Lady Carbury,\nthough she knew that he could be of no service, was not at all\nshocked. She was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and did\nnot forget to send the news by post to Roger Carbury. And her son sat\nat the same Board with Mr. Melmotte! What an indication was this of\ncoming triumphs!\n\nFisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the\nmorning of Saturday, 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at\nabout seven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to see\nhim. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and\nwhen she sought him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caught\nhim. \"I hope,\" she said, \"you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening.\"\nHitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening\nparties by his presence.\n\n\"All your people are coming! You know, mother, it is such an awful\nbore.\"\n\n\"Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here.\"\n\n\"One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own\nhouse. Everybody sees that it has been contrived. And it is such a\npokey, stuffy little place!\"\n\nThen Lady Carbury spoke out her mind. \"Felix, I think you must be a\nfool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anything\nto please me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hope\nfor a return. But when I am doing everything to advance your own\ninterests, when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, I\nthink you might at any rate help a little,--not for me of course, but\nfor yourself.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't want\nyou to work day and night.\"\n\n\"There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of this\ngirl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they\nare going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet Lord\nNidderdale down in the country.\"\n\n\"She can't endure Nidderdale. She says so herself.\"\n\n\"She will do as she is told,--unless she can be made to be downright\nin love with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once on\nTuesday?\"\n\n\"If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm not\ngoing to be driven.\"\n\n\"Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her\nwhen she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that\nyou really love her.\"\n\n\"Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;--I'll look in.\nWhat time do the animals come to feed?\"\n\n\"There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruel\nthat I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own\nway and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about\nten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here\nto receive her, not later than ten.\"\n\n\"If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come.\"\n\nWhen the Tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive to\nget his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar\nsmoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present\nhimself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten.\nMadame Melmotte and her daughter were already there,--and many\nothers, of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among them\nMr. Alf was in the room, and was at this very moment discussing\nLady Carbury's book with Mr. Booker. He had been quite graciously\nreceived, as though he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carbury\nhad given him her hand with that energy of affection with which she\nwas wont to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown one\nglance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face,--as\nthough asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel\nto one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. \"I cannot\nstand this kind of thing,\" said Mr. Alf, to Mr. Booker. \"There's a\nregular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down.\"\n\n\"If you're strong enough,\" said Mr. Booker.\n\n\"Well, I think I am. I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that I'm\nnot afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our\nfriend here;--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book,\nan unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established\nreputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to\nmisapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to\nme and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I\ncould.\"\n\nMr. Alf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker was\naware of the extent of Mr. Alf's knowledge. \"What you say is all very\nright,\" said Mr. Booker; \"only you want a different kind of world to\nlive in.\"\n\n\"Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our\nfriend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the\n'Criminal Queens' was the greatest historical work of modern days.\"\n\n\"I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, as\nfar as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure\nor violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't\nwant to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly\nbutterfly.\"\n\n\"As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea,\"\nsaid Mr. Alf, moving away.\n\n\"I'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!\" said Lady\nCarbury, holding Mr. Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to\nhim.\n\n\"Nothing more than my duty,\" said he, smiling.\n\n\"I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,\"\nshe replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other\nguest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of\nenduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but\nat this moment she did feel that Mr. Broune had done much for her,\nand that she would willingly make him some return of friendship.\nOf any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towards\nflirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once\nacted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She\nhad forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. She\nwas at any rate too much in earnest at the present moment to think\nabout it. But it was otherwise with Mr. Broune. He could not quite\nmake up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love with\nhim,--or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulge\nher;--and if so, in what manner. Then as he looked after her,\nhe told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that her\nfigure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rank\nconsiderable. Nevertheless, Mr. Broune knew of himself that he was\nnot a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would not\nsuit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how\nimpossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury should turn him\nfrom his resolution.\n\n\"I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr. Alf,\" Lady Carbury\nsaid to the high-minded editor of the \"Evening Pulpit.\"\n\n\"Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?\"\n\n\"You are very good. But I feared,--\"\n\n\"Feared what, Lady Carbury?\"\n\n\"That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to\nwelcome you after,--well, after the compliments of last Thursday.\"\n\n\"I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see,\nLady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself.\"\n\n\"No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did.\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavour\nto get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case,\nit should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should\nbe hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my\nown, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may\nhave spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alf\nwho has the misfortune to edit a newspaper.\"\n\n\"It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you,\" said\nLady Carbury with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word that\nMr. Alf had said to her. She thought, and thought rightly, that Mr.\nAlf's Mr. Jones had taken direct orders from his editor, as to his\ntreatment of the \"Criminal Queens.\" But she remembered that she\nintended to write another book, and that she might perhaps conquer\neven Mr. Alf by spirit and courage under her present infliction.\n\nIt was Lady Carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things to\neverybody. And she did her duty. But in the midst of it all she was\never thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did at last\nventure to separate the girl from her mother. Marie herself was not\nunwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, had\nnever seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! She, poor\ngirl, bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the life\nto which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonition\nfrom her father, who would again, fitfully, leave her unnoticed for\na week at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother--for poor Marie\nhad in truth been born before her father had been a married man, and\nhad never known what was her own mother's fate,--with no enjoyment in\nher present life, had come solely to this conclusion, that it would\nbe well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. Many a varied\nphase of life had already come in her way. She could just remember\nthe dirty street in the German portion of New York in which she had\nbeen born and had lived for the first four years of her life, and\ncould remember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been her\nmother. She could remember being at sea, and her sickness,--but could\nnot quite remember whether that woman had been with her. Then she\nhad run about the streets of Hamburgh, and had sometimes been very\nhungry, sometimes in rags,--and she had a dim memory of some trouble\ninto which her father had fallen, and that he was away from her for a\ntime. She had up to the present splendid moment her own convictions\nabout that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a human\nbeing. Then her father had married her present mother in Francfort.\nThat she could remember distinctly, as also the rooms in which she\nwas then taken to live, and the fact that she was told that from\nhenceforth she was to be a Jewess. But there had soon come another\nchange. They went from Francfort to Paris, and there they were all\nChristians. From that time they had lived in various apartments in\nthe French capital, but had always lived well. Sometimes there had\nbeen a carriage, sometimes there had been none. And then there came\na time in which she was grown woman enough to understand that her\nfather was being much talked about. Her father to her had always been\nalternately capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel,\nbut just at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife.\nAnd Madame Melmotte would weep at times and declare that they were\nall ruined. Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour\nat Paris. There was an hotel, with carriages and horses almost\nunnumbered;--and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark,\nswarthy, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously; but there were\nfew women. At this time Marie was hardly nineteen, and young enough\nin manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen. Suddenly again\nshe was told that she was to be taken to London, and the migration\nhad been effected with magnificence. She was first taken to Brighton,\nwhere the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been brought\nto Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown into the matrimonial\nmarket. No part of her life had been more disagreeable to her, more\nfrightful, than the first months in which she had been trafficked for\nby the Nidderdales and Grassloughs. She had been too frightened, too\nmuch of a coward to object to anything proposed to her, but still\nhad been conscious of a desire to have some hand in her own future\ndestiny. Luckily for her, the first attempts at trafficking with the\nNidderdales and Grassloughs had come to nothing; and at length she\nwas picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that it\nmight be possible to prevent a disposition of herself which did not\nsuit her own tastes. She was also beginning to think that there might\nbe a disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes.\n\nFelix Carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was seated\non a chair close to him. \"I love you better than anyone in the\nworld,\" he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhaps\nindifferent as to the hearing of others.\n\n\"Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that.\"\n\n\"You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be my\nwife.\"\n\n\"How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything.\"\n\n\"May I go to papa?\"\n\n\"You may if you like,\" she replied in a very low whisper. It was thus\nthat the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any day\nif people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nSIR FELIX IN HIS MOTHER'S HOUSE.\n\n\nWhen all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her\nson,--not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his\nnightly attendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope\nthat he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her\nof his fortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the\ncool effrontery with which Felix had spoken,--for without hearing\nthe words she had almost known the very moment in which he was\nasking,--and had seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the\nground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a\nwoman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who\nhad at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's\nmanner. But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up\nwith love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would\naccept in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son,\nhow glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference!\n\n\"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went,\" said\nHenrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom.\n\n\"He might have stayed to-night. Do you think he asked her?\"\n\n\"How can I say, mamma?\"\n\n\"I should have thought you would have been anxious about your\nbrother. I feel sure he did,--and that she accepted him.\"\n\n\"If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? A girl need not\nbe odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about\nher.\"\n\n\"No,--nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especially\nattractive.\"\n\n\"Who is? I don't see anybody specially attractive. It seems to me you\nare quite indifferent about Felix.\"\n\n\"Do not say that, mamma.\"\n\n\"Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this\ngirl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage.\nHe is eating us both up.\"\n\n\"I would not let him do that, mamma.\"\n\n\"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him.\nI could not see him starve. Think what he might be with £20,000\na-year!\"\n\n\"If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort\nme in all my troubles.\"\n\nThen Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury absolutely sat up the\nwhole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear his\ntidings. She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her\nfinery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she sat\nopposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of false\nhair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. She\ncould hide the unwelcome approach by art,--hide it more completely\nthan can most women of her age; but, there it was, stealing on her\nwith short grey hairs over her ears and around her temples, with\nlittle wrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by unobjectionable\ncosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only\nbe removed by that self-assertion of herself which practice had\nmade always possible to her in company, though it now so frequently\ndeserted her when she was alone.\n\nBut she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing\nold. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the\nfuture,--never reached but always coming. She, however, had not\nlooked for happiness to love and loveliness, and need not therefore\nbe disappointed on that score. She had never really determined what\nit was that might make her happy,--having some hazy aspiration after\nsocial distinction and literary fame, in which was ever commingled\nsolicitude respecting money. But at the present moment her great\nfears and her great hopes were centred on her son. She would not\ncare how grey might be her hair, or how savage might be Mr. Alf, if\nher Felix were to marry this heiress. On the other hand, nothing\nthat pearl-powder or the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" could do would\navail anything, unless he could be extricated from the ruin that\nnow surrounded him. So she went down into the dining-room, that she\nmight be sure to hear the key in the door, even should she sleep, and\nwaited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand.\n\nUnfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been duly\ncalled about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full\nstaring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him to\nthe door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, and\nthe fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become again\ncomfortable. She could not keep her mind to her book, and while she\nwas awake the time seemed to be everlasting. And then it was so\nterrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these!\nWhy should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to\nfall into his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his\nbeauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be\nso indispensable to his great project, for the chance of winning\nsomething which in comparison with Marie Melmotte's money must be\ndespicable! But at last he came! She waited patiently till he\nhad thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the\ndining-room door. She had studied her part for the occasion. She\nwould not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with\na smile. \"Mother,\" he said, \"you up at this hour!\" His face was\nflushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his\ngait. She had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible\nto her if such should be his condition.\n\n\"I could not go to bed till I had seen you.\"\n\n\"Why not? why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'll\nbe plenty of time by-and-bye.\"\n\n\"Is anything the matter, Felix?\"\n\n\"Matter;--what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among\nthe fellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit\nof my mind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should.\"\n\n\"There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?\"\n\n\"What, duelling; oh no,--nothing so exciting as that. Whether\nsomebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at\npresent. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up.\"\n\n\"What did Marie Melmotte say to you?\"\n\n\"Nothing particular.\" And he stood with his hand on the door as he\nanswered her.\n\n\"And what did you say to her?\"\n\n\"Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think that a man is\nin a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in\nthe morning, when he has been up all night?\"\n\n\"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word\nto me,\" she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking\ninto his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had\nbeen drinking. She could smell it in his breath.\n\n\"I must go to the old fellow, of course.\"\n\n\"She told you to go to her father?\"\n\n\"As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means to\nsettle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me.\"\nPulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother's\nhold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling\nagainst the stairs.\n\nThen the heiress herself had accepted her son! If so, surely the\nthing might be done. Lady Carbury recalled to mind her old conviction\nthat a daughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent\nin a contention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. But then\nthe girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend\non that of her lover. In this case, however, there was as yet no\nreason for supposing that the great man would object. As far as\noutward signs went, the great man had shown some partiality for her\nson. No doubt it was Mr. Melmotte who had made Sir Felix a director\nof the great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received\nin Grosvenor Square. And then Sir Felix was Sir Felix,--a real\nbaronet. Mr. Melmotte had no doubt endeavoured to catch this and that\nlord; but, failing a lord, why should he not content himself with a\nbaronet? Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money\nto make him an acceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as Mr.\nMelmotte;--not money in the funds, not a real fortune, not so many\nthousands a-year that could be settled;--the man's own enormous\nwealth rendered this unnecessary;--but such a one as Mr. Melmotte\nwould not like outward palpable signs of immediate poverty. There\nshould be means enough for present sleekness and present luxury. He\nmust have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and bright\nlittle canes to carry, and above all the means of making presents. He\nmust not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, most fortunately, Chance\nhad befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if\nhe went on gambling Chance would certainly take it all away again.\nFor aught that the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so\nalready. And then again, it was indispensable that he should abandon\nthe habit of play--at any rate for the present, while his prospects\ndepended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmotte. Of course such a one\nas Mr. Melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however much he\nmight approve of it in the City. Why, with such a preceptor to help\nhim, should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or\namong the brokers, or in the purlieus of the Bank? Lady Carbury would\nat any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as director\nof the Great Mexican Railway,--which position ought to be the\nbeginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own account. But what\nhope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not\nall hopes be over with Mr. Melmotte should he ever learn that his\ndaughter's lover reached home and tumbled up-stairs to bed between\neight and nine o'clock in the morning?\n\nShe watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at\nonce on the subject.\n\n\"Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for\nWhitsuntide.\"\n\n\"To Carbury Manor!\" said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which\nthe cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. \"I\nthought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any\nmore.\"\n\n\"I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object.\"\n\n\"What will Hetta do?\"\n\n\"Go too--why shouldn't she?\"\n\n\"Oh; I didn't know. I thought that perhaps she mightn't like it.\"\n\n\"I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't\ngive way to her.\"\n\n\"Has Roger asked you?\"\n\n\"No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we\nshould all go.\"\n\n\"Not me, mother!\"\n\n\"Yes; you especially.\"\n\n\"Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at Carbury\nManor?\"\n\n\"Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to\nCaversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spoke\nof Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend.\"\n\n\"Oh--h! that explains it all.\"\n\n\"Explains what, Felix?\" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly\nLongestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visit\nto Caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that\ndelightful young heir.\n\n\"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's\naffairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property\nin Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to\nhave that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do\nanything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the\nMelmottes are going to Caversham!\"\n\n\"Madame Melmotte told me so.\"\n\n\"And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England.\"\n\n\"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What\ncan be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; and\nwhy shouldn't we run down to the family place?\"\n\n\"All very natural if you can manage it, mother.\"\n\n\"And you'll come?\"\n\n\"If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and\nnight,\" said Felix.\n\nHis mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously\nmade.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTHE LONGESTAFFES.\n\n\nMr. Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and of\nPickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for the\nbest part of an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had there\ndiscussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room\nwith a very dissatisfied air. There are men,--and old men too, who\nought to know the world,--who think that if they can only find the\nproper Medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their\nruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh\nand new and unembarrassed. These great conjurors are generally sought\nfor in the City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though\nthe result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. No\ngreater Medea than Mr. Melmotte had ever been potent in money\nmatters, and Mr. Longestaffe had been taught to believe that if he\ncould get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything\nwould be made right for him. But the necromancer had explained to\nthe squire that property could not be created by the waving of any\nwand or the boiling of any cauldron. He, Mr. Melmotte, could put\nMr. Longestaffe in the way of realising property without delay,\nof changing it from one shape into another, or could find out the\nreal market value of the property in question; but he could create\nnothing. \"You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe.\"\n\n\"No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in\nthis country, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of\ncourse, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or\nthe other.\"\n\n\"There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I\nreside there.\"\n\n\"Your son will not join you in selling the other place?\"\n\n\"I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that I\nwish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my\nlife.\"\n\n\"I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the\nuncertainty.\"\n\nThen Mr. Longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outraged\naristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much\nfor him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to\nCaversham,--and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter.\nHe had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the\ngreat man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was\nto arrange, and this had been effected simply on the security of the\nlease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this, an absence\nof that delay which generally took place between the expression\nof his desire for money and the acquisition of it,--and this had\ngratified him. But he was already beginning to think that he might\npay too dearly for that gratification. At the present moment,\ntoo, Mr. Melmotte was odious to him for another reason. He had\ncondescended to ask Mr. Melmotte to make him a director of the South\nCentral Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he,--Adolphus Longestaffe\nof Caversham,--had had his request refused! Mr. Longestaffe had\ncondescended very low. \"You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!\" he\nhad said in a complaining tone. Then Mr. Melmotte explained that Lord\nAlfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for the position. \"I'm sure I\ncould do anything that he does,\" said Mr. Longestaffe. Upon this\nMr. Melmotte, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness,\nreplied that the number of directors required was completed. Since\nhe had had two duchesses at his house Mr. Melmotte was beginning to\nfeel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a\ncommoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.\n\nMr. Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and\nwhiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care,\nthough they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought\nvery much of his personal appearance. It was not that he considered\nhimself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic\nbearing. He entertained an idea that all who understood the matter\nwould perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the\nfirst water, and a man of fashion. He was intensely proud of his\nposition in life, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all\nthose who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of\ndifferent degrees, but the English gentleman of gentlemen was he who\nhad land, and family title-deeds, and an old family place, and family\nportraits, and family embarrassments, and a family absence of any\nuseful employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers,\nsince so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made\nlords; and, having stood and been beaten three or four times for his\ncounty, he was of opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark\nof bad breeding. He was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it\nbehoved him to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a\ncertain nobility of feeling. There was very little that his position\ncalled upon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him to do.\nIt was not allowed to him to be close in money matters. He could\nleave his tradesmen's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous,\nbut he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be\ntyrannical to his servants, but he could not make inquiry as to the\nconsumption of his wines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for\nhis tenants in regard to game, but he hesitated much as to raising\ntheir rent. He had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to\nit; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to\nhis family.\n\nAt the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to sell\nthe smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. The\ndebt had not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement\nwould, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. It\nwould also serve his son, who was blessed with a third property of\nhis own which he had already managed to burden with debt. The father\ncould not bear to be refused; and he feared that his son would\ndecline. \"But Adolphus wants money as much as any one,\" Lady Pomona\nhad said. He had shaken his head and pished and pshawed. Women never\ncould understand anything about money. Now he walked down sadly from\nMr. Melmotte's office and was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's\nchambers in Lincoln's Inn. Even for the accommodation of those few\nthousand pounds he was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers\nthat the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr.\nLongestaffe felt that the world in general was very hard on him.\n\n\"What on earth are we to do with them?\" said Sophia, the eldest Miss\nLongestaffe, to her mother.\n\n\"I do think it's a shame of papa,\" said Georgiana, the second\ndaughter. \"I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them.\"\n\n\"Of course you will leave them all on my hands,\" said Lady Pomona\nwearily.\n\n\"But what's the use of having them?\" urged Sophia. \"I can understand\ngoing to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One\ndoesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to the\ngirl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her.\"\n\n\"It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her,\" said Lady\nPomona.\n\n\"Dolly will never marry anybody,\" said Georgiana. \"The idea of his\ntaking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't\ncome down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to\nbe the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless.\"\n\n\"Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?\" asked Sophia.\n\n\"Because everybody wants money,\" said Lady Pomona. \"I'm sure I don't\nknow what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any\nmoney for anything. I don't spend it.\"\n\n\"I don't think that we do anything out of the way,\" said Sophia. \"I\nhaven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to\nlive at all, I don't know how we are to make a change.\"\n\n\"It's always been like this ever since I can remember,\" said\nGeorgiana, \"and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose\nit's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it.\"\n\n\"But, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as these\nMelmottes!\"\n\n\"As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan't\ntrouble myself about them. I suppose it will only be for two days.\"\n\n\"My dear, they're coming for a week!\"\n\n\"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did\nhear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down\nthere?\"\n\n\"He is wonderfully rich,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money,\" continued Georgiana.\n\"Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is more\nfuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got money\nto live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney\nBeauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in\nFlorence. It was there that Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey.\nI shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite\nhorrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at\nCaversham. No one knows who they are, or where they came from, or\nwhat they'll turn to.\" So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes\nwas supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest\ntongue.\n\nThis conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes'\nfamily town-house in Bruton Street. It was not by any means a\ncharming house, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which\nhave been added of late years to newly-built London residences. It\nwas gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms,\nand very little accommodation for servants. But it was the old family\ntown-house, having been inhabited by three or four generations of\nLongestaffes, and did not savour of that radical newness which\nprevails, and which was peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Longestaffe.\nQueen's Gate and the quarters around were, according to Mr.\nLongestaffe, devoted to opulent tradesmen. Even Belgrave Square,\nthough its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt\nof the mortar. Many of those living there and thereabouts had\nnever possessed in their families real family town-houses. The old\nstreets lying between Piccadilly and Oxford Street, with one or two\nwell-known localities to the south and north of these boundaries,\nwere the proper sites for these habitations. When Lady Pomona,\ninstigated by some friend of high rank but questionable taste, had\nonce suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longestaffe had at once\nsnubbed his wife. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the\ngirls then they might remain at Caversham. The threat of remaining at\nCaversham had been often made, for Mr. Longestaffe, proud as he was\nof his town-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the\nexpense of the annual migration. The girls' dresses and the girls'\nhorses, his wife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull London\ndinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that\nLady Pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of July,\nwith more dread than to any other period. It was then that he began\nto know what that year's season would cost him. But he had never yet\nbeen able to keep his family in the country during the entire year.\nThe girls, who as yet knew nothing of the Continent beyond Paris, had\nsignified their willingness to be taken about Germany and Italy for\ntwelve months, but had shown by every means in their power that they\nwould mutiny against any intention on their father's part to keep\nthem at Caversham during the London season.\n\nGeorgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the\nMelmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not\noften show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own,\nand could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His\nmother wrote to him notes without end,--notes every day, pressing\ninvitations of all sorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he\ntake them to the theatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to\nthat evening-party? These Dolly barely read, and never answered. He\nwould open them, thrust them into some pocket, and then forget them.\nConsequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who\nwere at any rate superior to him in intellect, treated him with a\ncertain deference. He could do as he liked, and they felt themselves\nto be slaves, bound down by the dulness of the Longestaffe regime.\nHis freedom was grand to their eyes, and very enviable, although they\nwere aware that he had already so used it as to impoverish himself in\nthe midst of his wealth.\n\n\"My dear Adolphus,\" said the mother, \"this is so nice of you.\"\n\n\"I think it is rather nice,\" said Dolly, submitting himself to be\nkissed.\n\n\"Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?\" said Sophia.\n\n\"Give him some tea,\" said his mother. Lady Pomona was always having\ntea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner.\n\n\"I'd sooner have soda and brandy,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"My darling boy!\"\n\n\"I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don't\nwant it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the\ngovernor?\" They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be\nsomething going on more than they had dreamed of, when Dolly asked to\nsee his father.\n\n\"Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch,\" said Sophia\ngravely.\n\n\"I'll wait a little for him,\" said Dolly, taking out his watch.\n\n\"Do stay and dine with us,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with some\nfellow.\"\n\n\"Some fellow! I believe you don't know where you're going,\" said\nGeorgiana.\n\n\"My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't.\"\n\n\"Adolphus,\" began Lady Pomona very seriously, \"I've got a plan and\nI want you to help me.\"\n\n\"I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother.\"\n\n\"We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and we\nparticularly want you to come.\"\n\n\"By George! no; I couldn't do that.\"\n\n\"You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are\ncoming.\"\n\n\"The d---- they are!\" ejaculated Dolly.\n\n\"Dolly!\" said Sophia, \"do remember where you are.\"\n\n\"Yes I will;--and I'll remember too where I won't be. I won't go to\nCaversham to meet old mother Melmotte.\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" continued the mother, \"do you know that Miss Melmotte\nwill have twenty--thousand--a year the day she marries; and that\nin all probability her husband will some day be the richest man in\nEurope?\"\n\n\"Half the fellows in London are after her,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Why shouldn't you be one of them?\"\n\n\"She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in\nLondon,\" suggested Georgiana. \"If you've a mind to try it you'll have\na chance which nobody else can have just at present.\"\n\n\"But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it\nisn't at all in my way, mother.\"\n\n\"I knew he wouldn't,\" said Georgiana.\n\n\"It would put everything so straight,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them\nstraight. There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row.\"\nThen Mr. Longestaffe entered the room.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Lady Pomona, \"here's Adolphus come to see us.\" The\nfather nodded his head at his son but said nothing. \"We want him to\nstay and dine, but he's engaged.\"\n\n\"Though he doesn't know where,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"My fellow knows;--he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever so\nlong, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and\nsee you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore,\nbecause I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't\nanything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know.\"\n\n\"You'd better come with me into the study,\" said the father. \"We\nneedn't disturb your mother and sisters about business.\" Then the\nsquire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making a\nwoful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea\nfor about half-an-hour, waiting,--not the result of the conference,\nfor with that they did not suppose that they would be made\nacquainted,--but whatever signs of good or evil might be collected\nfrom the manner and appearance of the squire when he should return to\nthem. Dolly they did not expect to see again,--probably for a month.\nHe and the squire never did come together without quarrelling, and\ncareless as was the young man in every other respect, he had hitherto\nbeen obdurate as to his own rights in any dealings which he had with\nhis father. At the end of the half hour Mr. Longestaffe returned to\nthe drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family. \"My\ndear,\" he said, \"we shall not return from Caversham to London this\nyear.\" He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity\nas he spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion.\n\n\n[Illustration: Then the squire led the way out of the room,\nand Dolly followed.]\n\n\n\"Papa!\" screamed Sophia.\n\n\"My dear, you don't mean it,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"Of course papa doesn't mean it,\" said Georgiana rising to her feet.\n\n\"I mean it accurately and certainly,\" said Mr. Longestaffe. \"We go to\nCaversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham\nto London this year.\"\n\n\"Our ball is fixed,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"Then it must be unfixed.\" So saying, the master of the house left\nthe drawing-room and descended to his study.\n\nThe three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their\nopinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly.\nBut the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother.\n\n\"He can't really mean it,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"He does,\" said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.\n\n\"He must unmean it again;--that's all,\" said Georgiana. \"Dolly has\nsaid something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did\nhe bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season\nhas begun?\"\n\n\"I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard\nupon Adolphus.\"\n\n\"Dolly can take care of himself,\" said Georgiana, \"and always does do\nso. Dolly does not care for us.\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn't stir from this\nat all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he\npromises to bring us back. I won't stir,--unless he has me carried\nout of the house.\"\n\n\"My dear, I couldn't say that to him.\"\n\n\"Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year\nwith no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury, who\nis rustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things\nthat one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the\nPrimeros. Mrs. Primero would have me I know. It wouldn't be nice of\ncourse. I don't like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;--it's\nquite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but\nnot half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte.\"\n\n\"That's ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine.\"\n\n\"But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what\nmade you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how\nhard papa is to manage.\"\n\n\"Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear.\"\n\n\"No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble\nof getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. I\nnever heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to\nbecome of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham\nup altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than\nis spent in London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all\nEngland.\"\n\nThe family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay.\nNothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's\ncompany. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried\nout by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on\nthat occasion. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak\nto their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by\nmonosyllables. Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa,\nwiping her eyes. To her had been imparted up-stairs the purport of\nthe conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to\nconsent to the sale of Pickering unless half the produce of the sale\nwere to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him\nthat the sale would be desirable in order that the Caversham property\nmight be freed from debt, which Caversham property would eventually\nbe his, he replied that he also had an estate of his own which was a\nlittle mortgaged and would be the better for money. The result seemed\nto be that Pickering could not be sold,--and, as a consequence of\nthat, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more\nLondon expenses that year.\n\nThe girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed\nhis head, as was their custom. There was very little show of\naffection in the kiss. \"You had better remember that what you have\nto do in town must be done this week,\" he said. They heard the words,\nbut marched in stately silence out of the room without deigning to\nnotice them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nCARBURY MANOR.\n\n\n\"I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. Of course if you\nhave made up your mind to go, I must go with you.\"\n\n\"What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your\nown cousin's house?\"\n\n\"You know what I mean, mamma.\"\n\n\"It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at all\nin what you say.\"\n\nThis little conversation arose from Lady Carbury's announcement\nto her daughter of her intention of soliciting the hospitality of\nCarbury Manor for the Whitsun week. It was very grievous to Henrietta\nthat she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with\nher, even though he was her cousin. But she had no escape. She could\nnot remain in town by herself, nor could she even allude to her\ngrievance to anyone but to her mother. Lady Carbury, in order that\nshe might be quite safe from opposition, had posted the following\nletter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter:--\n\n\n   Welbeck Street,\n   24th April, 18--.\n\n   MY DEAR ROGER,\n\n   We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what\n   I am going to propose doesn't suit you'll say so at once.\n   I have been working very hard,--too hard indeed, and I\n   feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting\n   into the country for a day or two. Would you take us for a\n   part of Whitsun week? We would come down on the 20th May\n   and stay over the Sunday if you would keep us. Felix says\n   he would run down though he would not trouble you for so\n   long a time as we talk of staying.\n\n   I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put\n   upon that Great American Railway Board as a Director. It\n   opens a new sphere of life to him, and will enable him to\n   prove that he can make himself useful. I think it was a\n   great confidence to place in one so young.\n\n   Of course you will say so at once if my little proposal\n   interferes with any of your plans, but you have been so\n   very very kind to us that I have no scruple in making it.\n\n   Henrietta joins with me in kind love.\n\n   Your affectionate cousin,\n\n   MATILDA CARBURY.\n\n\nThere was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed Roger\nCarbury. In the first place he felt that Henrietta should not be\nbrought to his house. Much as he loved her, dear as her presence\nto him always was, he hardly wished to have her at Carbury unless\nshe would come with a resolution to be its future mistress. In one\nrespect he did Lady Carbury an injustice. He knew that she was\nanxious to forward his suit, and he thought that Henrietta was being\nbrought to his house with that object. He had not heard that the\ngreat heiress was coming into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew\nnothing of Lady Carbury's scheme in that direction. He was, too,\ndisgusted by the ill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her\nson's position as a director. Roger Carbury did not believe in the\nRailway. He did not believe in Fisker, nor in Melmotte, and certainly\nnot in the Board generally. Paul Montague had acted in opposition to\nhis advice in yielding to the seductions of Fisker. The whole thing\nwas to his mind false, fraudulent, and ruinous. Of what nature could\nbe a Company which should have itself directed by such men as Lord\nAlfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury? And then as to their great\nChairman, did not everybody know, in spite of all the duchesses, that\nMr. Melmotte was a gigantic swindler? Although there was more than\none immediate cause for bitterness between them, Roger loved Paul\nMontague well and could not bear with patience the appearance of\nhis friend's name on such a list. And now he was asked for warm\ncongratulations because Sir Felix Carbury was one of the Board! He\ndid not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for belonging to such a\nBoard, or the Board for having such a director. \"New sphere of life!\"\nhe said to himself. \"The only proper sphere for them all would be\nNewgate!\"\n\nAnd there was another trouble. He had asked Paul Montague to come to\nCarbury for this special week, and Paul had accepted the invitation.\nWith the constancy, which was perhaps his strongest characteristic,\nhe clung to his old affection for the man. He could not bear the idea\nof a permanent quarrel, though he knew that there must be a quarrel\nif the man interfered with his dearest hopes. He had asked him down\nto Carbury intending that the name of Henrietta Carbury should not\nbe mentioned between them;--and now it was proposed to him that\nHenrietta Carbury should be at the Manor House at the very time of\nPaul's visit! He made up his mind at once that he must tell Paul not\nto come.\n\nHe wrote his two letters at once. That to Lady Carbury was very\nshort. He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta at the time\nnamed,--and would be very glad should it suit Felix to come also.\nHe did not say a word about the Board, or the young man's probable\nusefulness in his new sphere of life. To Montague his letter was\nlonger. \"It is always best to be open and true,\" he said. \"Since you\nwere kind enough to say that you would come to me, Lady Carbury has\nproposed to visit me just at the same time and to bring her daughter.\nAfter what has passed between us I need hardly say that I could not\nmake you both welcome here together. It is not pleasant to me to have\nto ask you to postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me\nof a want of hospitality towards you.\" Paul wrote back to say that\nhe was sure that there was no want of hospitality, and that he would\nremain in town.\n\nSuffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be said\nthat the scenery round Carbury was either grand or beautiful; but\nthere were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and the\ngrounds around it which gave it a charm of its own. The Carbury\nRiver,--so called, though at no place is it so wide but that an\nactive schoolboy might jump across it,--runs, or rather creeps into\nthe Waveney, and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds\nCarbury Manor House. The moat has been rather a trouble to the\nproprietors, and especially so to Roger, as in these days of sanitary\nconsiderations it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean\nwith at any rate moving water in it, or else to fill it up and\nabolish it altogether. That plan of abolishing it had to be thought\nof and was seriously discussed about ten years since; but then it was\ndecided that such a proceeding would altogether alter the character\nof the house, would destroy the gardens, and would create a waste of\nmud all round the place which it would take years to beautify, or\neven to make endurable. And then an important question had been asked\nby an intelligent farmer who had long been a tenant on the property;\n\"Fill un oop;--eh, eh; sooner said than doone, squoire. Where be the\nstoof to come from?\" The squire, therefore, had given up that idea,\nand instead of abolishing his moat had made it prettier than ever.\nThe high road from Bungay to Beccles ran close to the house,--so\nclose that the gable ends of the building were separated from it\nonly by the breadth of the moat. A short, private road, not above\na hundred yards in length, led to the bridge which faced the front\ndoor. The bridge was old, and high, with sundry architectural\npretensions, and guarded by iron gates in the centre, which, however,\nwere very rarely closed. Between the bridge and the front door there\nwas a sweep of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage,\nand on either side of this the house was brought close to the water,\nso that the entrance was in a recess, or irregular quadrangle, of\nwhich the bridge and moat formed one side. At the back of the house\nthere were large gardens screened from the road by a wall ten feet\nhigh, in which there were yew trees and cypresses said to be of\nwonderful antiquity. The gardens were partly inside the moat, but\nchiefly beyond them, and were joined by two bridges--a foot bridge\nand one with a carriage way,--and there was another bridge at the end\nof the house furthest from the road, leading from the back door to\nthe stables and farmyard.\n\nThe house itself had been built in the time of Charles II., when\nthat which we call Tudor architecture was giving way to a cheaper,\nless picturesque, though perhaps more useful form. But Carbury Manor\nHouse, through the whole county, had the reputation of being a Tudor\nbuilding. The windows were long, and for the most part low, made with\nstrong mullions, and still contained small, old-fashioned panes; for\nthe squire had not as yet gone to the expense of plate glass. There\nwas one high bow window, which belonged to the library, and which\nlooked out on to the gravel sweep, at the left of the front door as\nyou entered it. All the other chief rooms faced upon the garden. The\nhouse itself was built of a stone that had become buff, or almost\nyellow with years, and was very pretty. It was still covered with\ntiles, as were all the attached buildings. It was only two stories\nhigh, except at the end, where the kitchens were placed and the\noffices, which thus rose above the other part of the edifice. The\nrooms throughout were low, and for the most part long and narrow,\nwith large wide fire-places and deep wainscotings. Taking it\naltogether, one would be inclined to say, that it was picturesque\nrather than comfortable. Such as it was its owner was very proud\nof it,--with a pride of which he never spoke to anyone, which he\nendeavoured studiously to conceal, but which had made itself known\nto all who knew him well. The houses of the gentry around him were\nsuperior to his in material comfort and general accommodation, but to\nnone of them belonged that thoroughly established look of old county\nposition which belonged to Carbury. Bundlesham, where the Primeros\nlived, was the finest house in that part of the county, but it\nlooked as if it had been built within the last twenty years. It\nwas surrounded by new shrubs and new lawns, by new walls and new\nouthouses, and savoured of trade;--so at least thought Roger Carbury,\nthough he never said the words. Caversham was a very large mansion,\nbuilt in the early part of George III.'s reign, when men did care\nthat things about them should be comfortable, but did not care that\nthey should be picturesque. There was nothing at all to recommend\nCaversham but its size. Eardly Park, the seat of the Hepworths, had,\nas a park, some pretensions. Carbury possessed nothing that could be\ncalled a park, the enclosures beyond the gardens being merely so many\nhome paddocks. But the house of Eardly was ugly and bad. The Bishop's\npalace was an excellent gentleman's residence, but then that too was\ncomparatively modern, and had no peculiar features of its own. Now\nCarbury Manor House was peculiar, and in the eyes of its owner was\npre-eminently beautiful.\n\nIt often troubled him to think what would come of the place when\nhe was gone. He was at present forty years old, and was perhaps as\nhealthy a man as you could find in the whole county. Those around\nwho had known him as he grew into manhood among them, especially the\nfarmers of the neighbourhood, still regarded him as a young man. They\nspoke of him at the country fairs as the young squire. When in his\nhappiest moods he could be almost a boy, and he still had something\nof old-fashioned boyish reverence for his elders. But of late there\nhad grown up a great care within his breast,--a care which does not\noften, perhaps, in these days bear so heavily on men's hearts as it\nused to do. He had asked his cousin to marry him,--having assured\nhimself with certainty that he did love her better than any other\nwoman,--and she had declined. She had refused him more than once,\nand he believed her implicitly when she told him that she could\nnot love him. He had a way of believing people, especially when\nsuch belief was opposed to his own interests, and had none of that\nself-confidence which makes a man think that if opportunity be\nallowed him he can win a woman even in spite of herself. But if it\nwere fated that he should not succeed with Henrietta, then,--so he\nfelt assured,--no marriage would now be possible to him. In that case\nhe must look out for an heir, and could regard himself simply as a\nstop-gap among the Carburys. In that case he could never enjoy the\nluxury of doing the best he could with the property in order that a\nson of his own might enjoy it.\n\nNow Sir Felix was the next heir. Roger was hampered by no entail,\nand could leave every acre of the property as he pleased. In one\nrespect the natural succession to it by Sir Felix would generally be\nconsidered fortunate. It had happened that a title had been won in a\nlower branch of the family, and were this succession to take place\nthe family title and the family property would go together. No doubt\nto Sir Felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most\nproper thing in the world,--as it would also to Lady Carbury were it\nnot that she looked to Carbury Manor as the future home of another\nchild. But to all this the present owner of the property had very\nstrong objections. It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet\nhimself,--so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good\ncould come from that quarter,--but he thought ill also of the\nbaronetcy itself. Sir Patrick, to his thinking, had been altogether\nunjustifiable in accepting an enduring title, knowing that he would\nleave behind him no property adequate for its support. A baronet, so\nthought Roger Carbury, should be a rich man, rich enough to grace the\nrank which he assumed to wear. A title, according to Roger's doctrine\non such subjects, could make no man a gentleman, but, if improperly\nworn, might degrade a man who would otherwise be a gentleman. He\nthought that a gentleman, born and bred, acknowledged as such without\ndoubt, could not be made more than a gentleman by all the titles\nwhich the Queen could give. With these old-fashioned notions Roger\nhated the title which had fallen upon a branch of his family. He\ncertainly would not leave his property to support the title which Sir\nFelix unfortunately possessed. But Sir Felix was the natural heir,\nand this man felt himself constrained, almost as by some divine law,\nto see that his land went by natural descent. Though he was in no\ndegree fettered as to its disposition, he did not presume himself to\nhave more than a life interest in the estate. It was his duty to see\nthat it went from Carbury to Carbury as long as there was a Carbury\nto hold it, and especially his duty to see that it should go from\nhis hands, at his death, unimpaired in extent or value. There was\nno reason why he should himself die for the next twenty or thirty\nyears,--but were he to die Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the\nacres, and then there would be an end of Carbury. But in such case\nhe, Roger Carbury, would at any rate have done his duty. He knew that\nno human arrangements can be fixed, let the care in making them be\never so great. To his thinking it would be better that the estate\nshould be dissipated by a Carbury than held together by a stranger.\nHe would stick to the old name while there was one to bear it, and\nto the old family while a member of it was left. So thinking he had\nalready made his will, leaving the entire property to the man whom of\nall others he most despised, should he himself die without child.\n\nIn the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carbury was expected, he\nwandered about the place thinking of all this. How infinitely better\nit would be that he should have an heir of his own. How wonderfully\nbeautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin would\nconsent to be his wife! How wearily insipid must it be if no such\nconsent could be obtained from her. And then he thought much of her\nwelfare too. In very truth he did not like Lady Carbury. He saw\nthrough her character, judging her with almost absolute accuracy. The\nwoman was affectionate, seeking good things for others rather than\nfor herself; but she was essentially worldly, believing that good\ncould come out of evil, that falsehood might in certain conditions be\nbetter than truth, that shams and pretences might do the work of true\nservice, that a strong house might be built upon the sand! It was\nlamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to this\nteaching, and live in an atmosphere so burdened with falsehood. Would\nnot the touch of pitch at last defile her? In his heart of hearts he\nbelieved that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he was\nbeginning to fear evil. What but a sham could be a man who consented\nto pretend to sit as one of a Board of Directors to manage an\nenormous enterprise with such colleagues as Lord Alfred Grendall and\nSir Felix Carbury, under the absolute control of such a one as Mr.\nAugustus Melmotte? Was not this building a house upon the sand with\na vengeance? What a life it would be for Henrietta Carbury were she\nto marry a man striving to become rich without labour and without\ncapital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar,--a\ncity adventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most\ndishonest? He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but such was the\nlife which he feared the young man was preparing for himself.\n\nThen he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms which\nthe two ladies were to occupy. As their host, a host without a\nwife or mother or sister, it was his duty to see that things were\ncomfortable, but it may be doubted whether he would have been so\ncareful had the mother been coming alone. In the smaller room of the\ntwo the hangings were all white, and the room was sweet with May\nflowers; and he brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed\nit in a glass on the dressing table. Surely she would know who put it\nthere.\n\nThen he stood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing\nvacantly for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage\nbefore the front door. During that half hour he resolved that he\nwould try again as though there had as yet been no repulse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\"YOU SHOULD REMEMBER THAT I AM HIS MOTHER.\"\n\n\n\"This is so kind of you,\" said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's\nhand as she got out of the carriage.\n\n\"The kindness is on your part,\" said Roger.\n\n\"I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us. But I did so\nlong to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury. And--and--\"\n\n\"Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to the\nold house? I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull.\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Hetta smiling. \"You ought to remember that I am never\ndull in the country.\"\n\n\"The bishop and Mrs. Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,--and the\nHepworths.\"\n\n\"I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good\nfellow, and his wife is just as good. And there is another gentleman\ncoming whom you have never seen.\"\n\n\"A new neighbour?\"\n\n\"Yes,--a new neighbour;--Father John Barham, who has come to Beccles\nas priest. He has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in\nthis parish, and does duty both at Beccles and Bungay. I used to know\nsomething of his family.\"\n\n\"He is a gentleman then?\"\n\n\"Certainly he is a gentleman. He took his degree at Oxford, and\nthen became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call a\nconvert. He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they\npay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as\nthe wages of a day labourer. He told me the other day that he was\nabsolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes.\"\n\n\"How shocking!\" said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands.\n\n\"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. We have got to be\nquite friends.\"\n\n\"Will the bishop like to meet him?\"\n\n\"Why should not the bishop like to meet him? I've told the bishop all\nabout him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. He won't\nhurt the bishop. But you and Hetta will find it very dull.\"\n\n\"I shan't find it dull, Mr. Carbury,\" said Henrietta.\n\n\"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here,\"\nsaid Lady Carbury. She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what\nguests were expected at the Manor House. Sir Felix had promised to\ncome down on Saturday, with the intention of returning on Monday, and\nLady Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between\nCaversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full\nadvantage of his closeness to Marie Melmotte.\n\n\"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday,\" said Roger.\n\n\"They are down here then?\"\n\n\"I think they arrived yesterday. There is always a flustering breeze\nin the air and a perturbation generally through the county when they\ncome or go, and I think I perceived the effects about four in the\nafternoon. They won't come, I dare say.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"They never do. They have probably a house full of guests, and they\nknow that my accommodation is limited. I've no doubt they'll ask us\non Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go.\"\n\n\"I know they are to have guests,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"What guests?\"\n\n\"The Melmottes are coming to them.\" Lady Carbury, as she made the\nannouncement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession\nwere failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she\nwould any matter that was indifferent to her.\n\n\"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!\" said Roger, looking at\nHenrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been\nbrought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might\nhave an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte in the country.\n\n\"Oh yes,--Madame Melmotte told me. I take it they are very intimate.\"\n\n\"Mr. Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have been\ninduced to ask them here.\"\n\n\"I fancy, Roger, that Mr. Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary\nassistance.\"\n\n\"And he condescends to get it in this way! I suppose it will make no\ndifference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. Things aren't\nas they were, of course, and never will be again. Perhaps it's all\nfor the better;--I won't say it isn't. But I should have thought that\nsuch a man as Mr. Longestaffe might have kept such another man as Mr.\nMelmotte out of his wife's drawing-room.\" Henrietta became redder\nthan ever. Even Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger\nCarbury knew that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's\nball. He thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken,\nand then tried to make some half apology. \"I don't approve of them\nin London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the\ncountry.\"\n\nThen there was a movement. The ladies were shown into their rooms,\nand Roger again went out into the garden. He began to feel that he\nunderstood it all. Lady Carbury had come down to his house in order\nthat she might be near the Melmottes! There was something in this\nwhich he felt it difficult not to resent. It was for no love of him\nthat she was there. He had felt that Henrietta ought not to have been\nbrought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her\npresence there was a charm to him. He could have forgiven that, even\nwhile he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with\nthe object of disposing of her. If it were so, the mother's object\nwould be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon,\nthough he could not approve. His self-love had to some extent been\ngratified. But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used\nin order that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each\nother might be furthered!\n\nAs he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in\nthe garden. She had changed her travelling dress, and made herself\npretty, as she well knew how to do. And now she dressed her face in\nher sweetest smiles. Her mind, also, was full of the Melmottes, and\nshe wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good\nthat might come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. \"I\ncan understand, Roger,\" she said, taking his arm, \"that you should\nnot like those people.\"\n\n\"What people?\"\n\n\"The Melmottes.\"\n\n\"I don't dislike them. How should I dislike people that I never saw?\nI dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the\nreputation of being rich.\"\n\n\"Meaning me.\"\n\n\"No; not meaning you. I don't dislike you, as you know very well,\nthough I do dislike the fact that you should run after these people.\nI was thinking of the Longestaffes then.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own\ngratification? Do you think that I go to their house because I find\npleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here for\nany good that they will do me?\"\n\n\"I would not follow them at all.\"\n\n\"I will go back if you bid me, but I must first explain what I mean.\nYou know my son's condition,--better, I fear, than he does himself.\"\nRoger nodded assent to this, but said nothing. \"What is he to do? The\nonly chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a\ngirl with money. He is good-looking; you can't deny that.\"\n\n\"Nature has done enough for him.\"\n\n\"We must take him as he is. He was put into the army very young, and\nwas very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune.\nHe might have done better; but how many young men placed in such\ntemptations do well? As it is, he has nothing left.\"\n\n\"I fear not.\"\n\n\"And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with\nmoney?\"\n\n\"I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"Oh, Roger, how hard you are!\"\n\n\"A man must be hard or soft,--which is best?\"\n\n\"With women I think that a little softness has the most effect. I\nwant to make you understand this about the Melmottes. It stands to\nreason that the girl will not marry Felix unless she loves him.\"\n\n\"But does he love her?\"\n\n\"Why should he not? Is a girl to be debarred from being loved because\nshe has money? Of course she looks to be married, and why should she\nnot have Felix if she likes him best? Cannot you sympathize with my\nanxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name\nand to the family?\"\n\n\"We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"But I think so much about it.\"\n\n\"You will never get me to say that I think the family will be\nbenefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr. Melmotte. I look\nupon him as dirt in the gutter. To me, in my old-fashioned way, all\nhis money, if he has it, can make no difference. When there is a\nquestion of marriage people at any rate should know something of each\nother. Who knows anything of this man? Who can be sure that she is\nhis daughter?\"\n\n\"He would give her her fortune when she married.\"\n\n\"Yes; it all comes to that. Men say openly that he is an adventurer\nand a swindler. No one pretends to think that he is a gentleman.\nThere is a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses\nhis money not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks,--as does a card\nsharper. He is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much\nless to our tables, on the score of his own merits. But because he\nhas learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but\nsettle upon his carcase as so many birds of prey.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they love\neach other?\"\n\nHe shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love on\nthe part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only as\nregarded him, but also his mother. He could not quite declare this,\nand yet he desired that she should understand that he thought so.\n\"I have nothing more to say about it,\" he continued. \"Had it gone on\nin London I should have said nothing. It is no affair of mine. When\nI am told that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house as\nCaversham, and that Felix is coming here in order that he may be near\nto his prey, and when I am asked to be a party to the thing, I can\nonly say what I think. Your son would be welcome to my house, because\nhe is your son and my cousin, little as I approve his mode of life;\nbut I could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the\nwork that he has on hand.\"\n\n\"If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London. I shall find it\nhard to explain to Hetta;--but we will go.\"\n\n\"No; I certainly do not wish that.\"\n\n\"But you have said such hard things! How are we to stay? You speak\nof Felix as though he were all bad.\" She looked at him hoping to get\nfrom him some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly\nword; but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. She\ncould bear much. She was not delicate as to censure implied, or even\nexpressed. She had endured rough usage before, and was prepared to\nendure more. Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she\nwould have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,--would\nhave forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have\nbeen deserved. But for her son she was prepared to fight. If she did\nnot defend him, who would? \"I am grieved, Roger, that we should have\ntroubled you with our visit, but I think that we had better go. You\nare very harsh, and it crushes me.\"\n\n\"I have not meant to be harsh.\"\n\n\"You say that Felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to be\nbrought here to be near--his prey. What can be more harsh than that?\nAt any rate, you should remember that I am his mother.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"You should remember that I am his mother.\"]\n\n\nShe expressed her sense of injury very well. Roger began to be\nashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. And\nyet he did not know how to recall them. \"If I have hurt you, I regret\nit much.\"\n\n\"Of course you have hurt me. I think I will go in now. How very hard\nthe world is! I came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and\nthere has come a storm at once.\"\n\n\"You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to speak. You\ncannot think that I meant to offend you.\" They walked on in silence\ntill they had reached the door leading from the garden into the\nhouse, and here he stopped her. \"If I have been over hot with you,\nlet me beg your pardon.\" She smiled and bowed; but her smile was not\none of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house.\n\"Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"I think I will go to my room now. My head aches so that I can hardly\nstand.\"\n\nIt was late in the afternoon,--about six,--and according to his daily\ncustom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as\nthey came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on\nthe spot where Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the\nlawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet. Could it\nreally be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her\ndaughter with her? Was it thus that he was to part with the one human\nbeing in the world that he loved? He was a man who thought much of\nthe duties of hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was\nbound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more\ngracious than the world required elsewhere. And of all guests those\nof his own name were the best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury.\nHe held the place in trust for the use of others. But if there were\none among all others to whom the house should be a house of refuge\nfrom care, not an abode of trouble, on whose behalf were it possible\nhe would make the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their\nwont, to whom he would declare, were such words possible to his\ntongue, that of him and of his house, and of all things there she was\nthe mistress, whether she would condescend to love him or no,--that\none was his cousin Hetta. And now he had been told by his guest that\nhe had been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to\nLondon!\n\nAnd he could not acquit himself. He knew that he had been rough.\nHe had said very hard words. It was true that he could not have\nexpressed his meaning without hard words, nor have repressed his\nmeaning without self-reproach. But in his present mood he could not\ncomfort himself by justifying himself. She had told him that he ought\nto have remembered that Felix was her son; and as she spoke she had\nacted well the part of an outraged mother. His heart was so soft that\nthough he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he\nutterly condemned himself. Look where he would there was no comfort.\nWhen he had sat half-an-hour upon the bridge he turned towards the\nhouse to dress for dinner,--and to prepare himself for an apology, if\nany apology might be accepted. At the door, standing in the doorway\nas though waiting for him, he met his cousin Hetta. She had on her\nbosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he\nthought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness towards him\nthan he had ever seen there before.\n\n\"Mr. Carbury,\" she said, \"mamma is so unhappy!\"\n\n\"I fear that I have offended her.\"\n\n\"It is not that, but that you should be so,--so angry about Felix.\"\n\n\"I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,--more vexed than I can\ntell you.\"\n\n\"She knows how good you are.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not. I was very bad just now. She was so offended with me\nthat she talked of going back to London.\" He paused for her to speak,\nbut Hetta had no words ready for the moment. \"I should be wretched\nindeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger.\"\n\n\"I do not think she will do that.\"\n\n\"And you?\"\n\n\"I am not angry. I should never dare to be angry with you. I only\nwish that Felix would be better. They say that young men have to be\nbad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. He is\nsomething in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks\nthat the work will be of service to him.\" Roger could express no\nhope in this direction or even look as though he approved of the\ndirectorship. \"I don't see why he should not try at any rate.\"\n\n\"Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you.\"\n\n\"Girls are so different, you know.\"\n\nIt was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he made\nhis apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at last\nit was accepted. \"I think I was rough to you, talking about Felix,\"\nhe said,--\"and I beg your pardon.\"\n\n\"You were energetic, that was all.\"\n\n\"A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never\nbe rough to his own guests. I hope you will forgive me.\" She answered\nhim by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel\nwas over.\n\nLady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was\nenabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. Felix might now\ncome down to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and\nprosecute his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further\nobjection. And Felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed.\nRoger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy by the\nformer severity of his language. Such points as these Lady Carbury\nnever missed. He understood it too, and though he was soft and\ngracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant\nas he could to his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out\nof his undoubted right to disapprove of all connection with the\nMelmottes. In the course of the evening there came a note,--or rather\na bundle of notes,--from Caversham. That addressed to Roger was\nin the form of a letter. Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the\nLongestaffe party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining\nat Carbury Hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests.\nLady Pomona hoped that Mr. Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady\nPomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes\nthe pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday\nfollowing, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That was the purport\nof Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury. Then there were cards of\ninvitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix.\n\nRoger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady\nCarbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. The\ntone of his voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was\nsomething in it of his former harshness. But she knew how to use her\ntriumph. \"I should like to go,\" she said.\n\n\"I certainly shall not go,\" he replied; \"but there will be no\ndifficulty whatever in sending you over. You must answer at once,\nbecause their servant is waiting.\"\n\n\"Monday will be best,\" she said; \"--that is, if nobody is coming\nhere.\"\n\n\"There will be nobody here.\"\n\n\"I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,--and Felix will accept\ntheir invitation.\"\n\n\"I can make no suggestion,\" said Roger, thinking how delightful it\nwould be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was\nthat Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the Melmottes.\nPoor Hetta herself could say nothing. She certainly did not wish to\nmeet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousin\nRoger.\n\n\"That will be best,\" said Lady Carbury after a moment's thought. \"It\nis very good of you to let us go, and to send us.\"\n\n\"Of course you will do here just as you please,\" he replied. But\nthere was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury feared. A\nquarter of an hour later the Caversham servant was on his way home\nwith two letters,--the one from Roger expressing his regret that he\ncould not accept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the other from Lady\nCarbury declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great\npleasure in dining at Caversham on the Monday.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nTHE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST.\n\n\nThe afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house had\nbeen very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury\nhad suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended\nto suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he\nhad been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to\nLondon, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad\nfeminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had\ndone so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of\nmeeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for\nspeaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm,\nimmediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could\nhave the waggonnette when they pleased. \"I'm afraid you'll find it\ntiresome driving about our lanes,\" he said. Lady Carbury assured him\nthat she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was\nstarting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought\nto Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his\nway. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit\ntill Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to\nremain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to\ndine at Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose\nand thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and\nhonour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so\ndearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such\ncousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side\nagainst her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest\nguide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover\nwhom she did not love?\n\n\"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here,\" said\nLady Carbury.\n\n\"Why so, mamma?\"\n\n\"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world,\nand would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the\ngentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a\ncomfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!\"\n\n\"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice\npeople.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta,\ndon't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from\nthe superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I\nbeg that you will not copy him.\"\n\n\"Mamma, I think that is unkind.\"\n\n\"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse\npeople who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word\nfrom you might undo all that we are doing.\"\n\n\"What word?\"\n\n\"What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you\nshould use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is\nwilling enough. She did refer him to her father.\"\n\n\"Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?\"\n\n\"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger\ncould only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place,\nand that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't\nthink there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte.\"\n\n\"How could he do that, mamma?\"\n\n\"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your\nbrother would be his heir.\"\n\n\"You should not think of such a thing, mamma.\"\n\n\"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think\nof my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what\nI say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix\nCarbury of Carbury.\"\n\n\"But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?\"\n\n\"You say he is so old that you will not look at him.\"\n\n\"I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know\nI did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal\nolder get married every day.\"\n\n\"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that\nkind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will\nchange him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an\nold misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented.\nYou are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate\nI do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the\nproperty and title and name of the place will all go together. It\nwill be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?\"\n\n\"Who is to say it?\"\n\n\"Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one\ncannot get him to speak rationally.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to\ngo to--Felix, when he--is dead!\"\n\n\"It would not kill him a day sooner.\"\n\n\"You would not dare to do it, mamma.\"\n\n\"I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not look\nlike that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the\nkind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service\nhe might be to us without in any way hurting himself.\" Henrietta\nwould fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for\nanything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme\nas that proposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. There\nwas no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was\nbeginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which\nher mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to\ndespise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.\n\nIn the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles\nthat she might telegraph to her son. \"You are to dine at Caversham\non Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there.\" Lady Carbury\nhad many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in\nthe office might too probably understand who was the \"She,\" who\nwas spoken of as being at Caversham, and might understand also\nthe project, and speak of it publicly. But then it was essential\nthat Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity\nafforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on\nMonday,--and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and\nthrow over the Longestaffes and their dinner-party. Again if he were\ntold to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance\nof wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carbury's desire to get him\ndown for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would\nso tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress\nwas already in the neighbourhood. Then she returned, and shut herself\nup in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she\nwas writing for the \"Breakfast Table.\" Nobody should ever accuse her\njustly of idleness. And afterwards, as she walked by herself round\nand round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new\nbook. Whatever might happen she would persevere. If the Carburys\nwere unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers.\nHenrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from\nbreakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But she\nwas thinking of him during every minute of the day,--how good he was,\nhow honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness\nat her hand! Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be\nregarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for\nher. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never\nmarry unless she would take his hand? She came to think of him with\nmore tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she would\nnot tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to\ngive herself to him without loving him,--because he was so good; but\nshe was sure that she did not love him.\n\nIn the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs. Yeld, and the\nHepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. The\nparty consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for a\nmixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,--especially if\nthere be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite\nto the master. In this case Mr. Hepworth faced the giver of the\nfeast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the\nladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things\nto no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the\nduty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his\nguests. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the\nyoung priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and\nthen to his cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening,\nand told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own\nhouse. She had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never\nwatched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that\nhe would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife\nand the mother of his children.\n\nThe bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome,\nwith hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and\nsomething of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a\nbroad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for\nclerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortune\noutside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and had\nno children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a\nnobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was very\npopular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such\nclergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theology\neither on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a model\nbishop. By the very high and the very low,--by those rather who\nregarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish,--he was\nlooked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea in\neither of those boats. He was an unselfish man, who loved his\nneighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God for\nhis daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily to be delivered\nfrom temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a\ncreed,--or even to hold one, if it be necessary that a man should\nunderstand and define his creed before he can hold it. Whether he was\nfree from, or whether he was scared by, any inward misgivings, who\nshall say? If there were such he never whispered a word of them even\nto the wife of his bosom. From the tone of his voice and the look\nof his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by that agony which\ndoubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. And yet\nit was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith, or entered\ninto arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it.\nHe was diligent in preaching,--moral sermons that were short, pithy,\nand useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfare of his\nclergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. The edifice\nof every church in his diocese was a care to him. He laboured at\nschools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the\npoor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the\nhuman soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps\nthere was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his\ndiocese than the Bishop of Elmham.\n\nA man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the\nlately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be\nimpossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men.\nFather John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, so\nmeagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, he\nwas taken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair, which was cut\nshort in accordance with the usage of his Church; but which he so\nconstantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, it\nseemed to be wild and uncombed. In his younger days, when long locks\nstraggled over his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talking\nenergetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had not\nsince dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair,\nand then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a\nhigh, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeks\nvery thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square\nchin. He was utterly without worldly means, except those which came\nto him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to\nfind him food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent to\nsuch matters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger son\nof an English country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to\nOxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his\nordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had\nresented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had\ndrawn a sister with him. When banished from the house he had still\nstriven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters,\nand was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care.\nBut of this he never complained. It was a part of the plan of his\nlife that he should suffer for his faith. Had he been able to change\nhis creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and\npoverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable\nand satisfactory as it was. He considered that his father, as a\nProtestant,--and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all the\nsame,--had been right to quarrel with him. But he loved his father,\nand was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications,\nthat his father might see the truth and be as he was.\n\nTo him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,--that\nhe should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others,\nand allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faith\nbeing sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be\nnothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whose\nbelief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct would\ncertainly be added. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham\na real religion; and he would teach them in season and out of\nseason, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving their\ntruth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his\nperseverance would create. He had but one duty before him,--to do his\npart towards bringing over the world to his faith. It might be that\nwith the toil of his whole life he should convert but one; that he\nshould but half convert one; that he should do no more than disturb\nthe thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But\neven that would be work done. He would sow the seed if it might be\nso; but if it were not given to him to do that, he would at any rate\nplough the ground.\n\nHe had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out that\nhe was a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found out\nalso that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the\nhand. The young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour's\nhospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he\nshould be delighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in want of\na dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry\nyard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparent\nfrankness of the man about himself had charmed Roger, and the charm\nhad not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winter\nevening in the parlour at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting\nhis host. \"I have the most thorough respect for your religion,\" Roger\nhad said; \"but it would not suit me.\" The priest had gone on with his\nlogic; if he could not sow the seed he might plough the ground. This\nhad been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it\nto be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest, and such earnestness\ncommanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be\nbored, he could not be injured by such teaching. Then it occurred to\nhim one day that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a\ndozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth,--except\nwhen in the pulpit,--a single word of religious teaching; whereas\nthis man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the very\nfact of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger\nCarbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that\nthe bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.\n\nLady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one\nlooking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was\nsore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin,\nand was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other.\nShe had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to\nhim of her soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced\nher of her error, and she never repeated it. To Mr. Alf she commonly\ntalked of her mind; to Mr. Broune of her heart; to Mr. Booker of\nher body--and its wants. She was quite ready to talk of her soul on\na proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subject\neven on a bishop. Now she was full of the charms of Carbury and its\nneighbourhood. \"Yes, indeed,\" said the bishop, \"I think Suffolk is a\nvery nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll\nsay as much for Norfolk too. 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own\nnest.'\"\n\n\"I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling,\"\nsaid Lady Carbury. \"Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and\nLancashire have become great towns, and have lost all local\ndistinctions.\"\n\n\"We still keep our name and reputation,\" said the bishop; \"Silly\nSuffolk!\"\n\n\"But that was never deserved.\"\n\n\"As much, perhaps, as other general epithets. I think we are a sleepy\npeople. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautiful\nscenery, like the lake country,--no rivers great for fishing, like\nScotland,--no hunting grounds, like the shires.\"\n\n\"Partridges!\" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.\n\n\"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery.\nWe shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can't\nincrease and multiply as they do in the great cities.\"\n\n\"I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason.\nWhat is the use of a crowded population?\"\n\n\"The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to her\nvoice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine\narrangement. \"The world must be peopled; but for myself I like the\ncountry better than the town.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Roger; \"and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty,\nand radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poor\npeople touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There\nis something left among us of old English habits.\"\n\n\"That is so nice,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Something left of old English ignorance,\" said the bishop. \"All the\nsame I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. What\nbeautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carbury! At any rate, we can\ngrow flowers in Suffolk.\"\n\nMrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and\nwas in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. She was, perhaps, a\nlittle stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though she\nwas willing to admit that Mr. Barham might not have ceased to be a\ngentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quite\nsure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to do\nwith him. Mr. Carbury had not taken them unawares. Notice had been\ngiven that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declared\nthat he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs. Yeld had had\nher misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after the\nbishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right,\nand wrong wrong,--and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and therefore\nought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were no\npriests there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr. Barham was, no doubt,\na man of good family, which did make a difference.\n\nMr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturn\nhumility with which he commenced his operations was in exact\nproportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy.\nMrs. Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civil\nwords, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almost\novercame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poor\nof Beccles, being very careful to allude only to their material\nposition. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young\nwomen would have finery. Where did they get the money to buy those\nwonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr. Barham was very\nmeek, and agreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a plan\nready formed for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly\nwithin her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it\nabout on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparently\nchance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of \"our\npeople,\" that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation\nby observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.\n\nWhen the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the\nway of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the\nmorality of Beccles. It was evidently Mr. Barham's opinion that \"his\npeople\" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer.\n\"But the Irish always drink,\" said Mr. Hepworth.\n\n\"Not so much as the English, I think,\" said the priest. \"And you\nare not to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greater\nproportion are English.\"\n\n\"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours,\" said the\nbishop. \"Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of\npersons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give the\nexact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhood\nI could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be Roman\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"It is not, my lord, because there are none.\"\n\n\"Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my\nneighbours.\"\n\n\"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor,\" said Mr.\nHepworth.\n\n\"They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our\nSaviour,\" said the priest.\n\n\"I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn,\" said the bishop,\nwith a curious smile. \"We were speaking of those who are still\nattached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new\nreligion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be\nthe first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance\nwith our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remain\nwith the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so\neasily intelligible.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: The bishop thinks that the priest's analogy\nis not correct.]\n\n\n\"The Roman population still believed,\" said Carbury, \"when the\npatricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful\nbugbears.\"\n\n\"The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The\npeople clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it\nalso.\"\n\n\"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord,\" said the\npriest.\n\n\"That begs the whole question,\" said the bishop, turning to his host,\nand beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been\nimported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworth\nand went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a\nmistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor.\nThere were the A----s and the B----s, and the C----s and the D----s.\nHe knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these\nfaithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day\nbe enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine\ncondition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours\nhe did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham,\nthough he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the\nname of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.\n\n\"Your priest is a very zealous man,\" said the bishop afterwards\nto Roger Carbury, \"and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent\ngentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet.\"\n\n\"I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his\nlights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare.\"\n\n\"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him.\nBut I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his\ncompany.\"\n\n\"I am sure he would repeat nothing.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to\nget the best of me.\"\n\n\"I don't think it answers,\" said Mrs. Yeld to her husband as they\nwent home. \"Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants\nare Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics.\"\n\n\"You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't\nhave them decline to meet each other.\"\n\n\"It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion.\"\n\n\"It ought to be,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but I\ndon't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I do, either,\" said the bishop; \"but if he comes\nin my way I hope I shall treat him civilly.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nMARIE MELMOTTE HEARS A LOVE TALE.\n\n\nOn the following morning there came a telegram from Felix. He was\nto be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and\nRoger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to the\nstation for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was\nstill another train by which he might come so as to be just in time\nfor dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carbury\nwith a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her\ncousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did,\ninvoluntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage\nhad to be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not\nnumerous at Carbury. The squire kept a waggonnette and a pair of\nhorses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the\nfarm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage\nto be brought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the\ncarriage once on this day,--and now sent it again, Lady Carbury\nhaving said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be\ndone. But he did it with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was\nSir Felix, the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of\nhis position and rank,--because also of his intention to marry the\ngreat heiress of the day. To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young\nman, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever\nwas due. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonnette was\nsent. But the waggonnette again came back empty. That evening was\nspent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta, in very much gloom.\n\nAbout four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of the\nbaronet. Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains,\nhe had contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himself\ndeposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carbury.\nRoger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and Lady Carbury\nalso left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been a\nvery fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a very\ndifferent opinion, and spoke little or nothing. \"Oh, Felix,\" said the\nmother, \"you have so terrified us!\"\n\n\"I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to\ncome fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who\ncould hardly get up a trot.\"\n\n\"But why didn't you come by the train you named?\"\n\n\"I couldn't get out of the city,\" said the baronet with a ready lie.\n\n\"I suppose you were at the Board?\" To this Felix made no direct\nanswer. Roger knew that there had been no Board. Mr. Melmotte was in\nthe country and there could be no Board, nor could Sir Felix have had\nbusiness in the city. It was sheer impudence,--sheer indifference,\nand, into the bargain, a downright lie. The young man, who was\nof himself so unwelcome, who had come there on a project which\nhe, Roger, utterly disapproved,--who had now knocked him and his\nhousehold up at four o'clock in the morning,--had uttered no word of\napology. \"Miserable cub!\" Roger muttered between his teeth. Then he\nspoke aloud, \"You had better not keep your mother standing here. I\nwill show you your room.\"\n\n\"All right, old fellow,\" said Sir Felix. \"I'm awfully sorry to\ndisturb you all in this way. I think I'll just take a drop of brandy\nand soda before I go to bed, though.\" This was another blow to Roger.\n\n\"I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have,\nI don't know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you\nwill come with me.\" He pronounced the word \"brandy\" in a tone which\nimplied that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. It was a wretched\nwork to Roger. He was forced to go up-stairs and fetch a key in order\nthat he might wait upon this cub,--this cur! He did it, however, and\nthe cub drank his brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his\nhost's ill-humour. As he went to bed he suggested the probability\nof his not showing himself till lunch on the following day, and\nexpressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed.\n\"He is born to be hung,\" said Roger to himself as he went to his\nroom,--\"and he'll deserve it.\"\n\nOn the following morning, being Sunday, they all went to\nchurch,--except Felix. Lady Carbury always went to church when she\nwas in the country, never when she was at home in London. It was\none of those moral habits, like early dinners and long walks, which\nsuited country life. And she fancied that were she not to do so, the\nbishop would be sure to know it and would be displeased. She liked\nthe bishop. She liked bishops generally; and was aware that it was a\nwoman's duty to sacrifice herself for society. As to the purpose for\nwhich people go to church, it had probably never in her life occurred\nto Lady Carbury to think of it. On their return they found Sir Felix\nsmoking a cigar on the gravel path, close in front of the open\ndrawing-room window.\n\n\"Felix,\" said his cousin, \"take your cigar a little farther. You are\nfilling the house with tobacco.\"\n\n\"Oh heavens,--what a prejudice!\" said the baronet.\n\n\"Let it be so, but still do as I ask you.\" Sir Felix chucked the\ncigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger walked\nup to the spot and kicked the offending weed away. This was the first\ngreeting of the day between the two men.\n\nAfter lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating him\nto go over at once to Caversham. \"How the deuce am I to get there?\"\n\n\"Your cousin will lend you a horse.\"\n\n\"He's as cross as a bear with a sore head. He's a deal older than\nI am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up with\ninsolence. If it were anywhere else I should just go into the yard\nand ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course.\"\n\n\"Roger has not a great establishment.\"\n\n\"I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. I\ndon't want anything grand.\"\n\n\"He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday.\"\n\n\"I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little\ngrievances. Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because\nyou are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. I shall ask him\nfor a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not like it, he\nmay lump it.\" About half an hour after this he found his cousin. \"Can\nI have a horse to ride over to Caversham this afternoon?\" he said.\n\n\"Our horses never go out on Sunday,\" said Roger. Then he added, after\na pause, \"You can have it. I'll give the order.\" Sir Felix would\nbe gone on Tuesday, and it should be his own fault if that odious\ncousin ever found his way into Carbury House again! So he declared\nto himself as Felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how\nprobable it was that Felix himself would be the owner of Carbury. And\nshould it ever come to pass,--as still was possible,--that Henrietta\nshould be the mistress of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to\nreceive her brother. He stood for a while on the bridge watching his\ncousin as he cantered away upon the road, listening to the horse's\nfeet. The young man was offensive in every possible way. Who does not\nknow that ladies only are allowed to canter their friends' horses\nupon roads? A gentleman trots his horse, and his friend's horse.\nRoger Carbury had but one saddle horse,--a favourite old hunter\nthat he loved as a friend. And now this dear old friend, whose legs\nprobably were not quite so good as they once were, was being galloped\nalong the hard road by that odious cub! \"Soda and brandy!\" Roger\nexclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the discomfiture of\nthat early morning. \"He'll die some day of delirium tremens in a\nhospital!\"\n\nBefore the Longestaffes left London to receive their new friends\nthe Melmottes at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr.\nLongestaffe, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded daughter.\nThe daughter on her side undertook that the guests should be treated\nwith feminine courtesy. This might be called the most-favoured-nation\nclause. The Melmottes were to be treated exactly as though old\nMelmotte had been a gentleman and Madame Melmotte a lady. In return\nfor this the Longestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town.\nBut here again the father had carried another clause. The prolonged\nsojourn in town was to be only for six weeks. On the 10th of July the\nLongestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder\nof the year. When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the\nfather became absolutely violent in his refusal. \"In God's name where\ndo you expect the money is to come from?\" When Georgiana urged that\nother people had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time\nwas coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over\nher head. This, however, she took as having been said with poetical\nlicence, the same threat having been made more than once before.\nThe treaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to\ncarry it out with fair honesty. The Melmottes were being treated with\ndecent courtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled.\n\nThe idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been barely\nsuggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that\nDolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned. Dolly, with\nall his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own\nfamily, was invincible. He was never persuaded to any course either\nby his father or mother. Dolly certainly would not marry Marie\nMelmotte. Therefore when the Longestaffes heard that Sir Felix was\ncoming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining\nhim at Caversham. He had been lately talked of in London as the\nfavourite in regard to Marie Melmotte. Georgiana Longestaffe had a\ngrudge of her own against Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account\nsomewhat well inclined towards Sir Felix's prospects. Soon after the\nMelmottes' arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting\nSir Felix. \"There is a friend of yours going to dine here on Monday,\nMiss Melmotte.\" Marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the\ngrandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new\nacquaintances, made hardly any answer. \"I think you know Sir Felix\nCarbury,\" continued Georgiana.\n\n\"Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury.\"\n\n\"He is coming down to his cousin's. I suppose it is for your bright\neyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would like.\"\n\n\"I don't think he is coming because of me,\" said Marie blushing. She\nhad once told him that he might go to her father, which according to\nher idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her\npower of acceptance went. Since that she had seen him, indeed, but he\nhad not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had\nhe said a word to Mr. Melmotte. But she had been very rigorous in\ndeclining the attentions of other suitors. She had made up her mind\nthat she was in love with Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on\nconstancy. But she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.\n\n\"We had heard,\" said Georgiana, \"that he was a particular friend of\nyours.\" And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame Melmotte\ncertainly could not have surpassed.\n\nSir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on the\nlawn, and he also found Mr. Melmotte there. At the last moment Lord\nAlfred Grendall had been asked,--not because he was at all in favour\nwith any of the Longestaffes, but in order that he might be useful\nin disposing of the great Director. Lord Alfred was used to him and\ncould talk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and\ndrink. Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked to Caversham, and Lord\nAlfred had come, having all his expenses paid by the great Director.\nWhen Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was earning his entertainment by\ntalking to Mr. Melmotte in a summer-house. He had cool drink before\nhim and a box of cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how\nhard the world had been to him. Lady Pomona was languid, but not\nuncivil in her reception. She was doing her best to perform her\npart of the treaty in reference to Madame Melmotte. Sophia was\nwalking apart with a certain Mr. Whitstable, a young squire in the\nneighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was\nnow reputed to be twenty-eight,--they who decided the question might\nhave said thirty-one without falsehood,--it was considered that Mr.\nWhitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be expected.\nSophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness,\nand had not quite succeeded in London. Georgiana had been more\nadmired, and boasted among her friends of the offers which she had\nrejected. Her friends on the other hand were apt to tell of her many\nfailures. Nevertheless she held her head up, and had not as yet come\ndown among the rural Whitstables. At the present moment her hands\nwere empty, and she was devoting herself to such a performance of the\ntreaty as should make it impossible for her father to leave his part\nof it unfulfilled.\n\nFor a few minutes Sir Felix sat on a garden chair making conversation\nto Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. \"Beautiful garden,\" he said; \"for\nmyself I don't much care for gardens; but if one is to live in the\ncountry, this is the sort of thing that one would like.\"\n\n\"Delicious,\" said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing her\nshawl higher round her throat. It was the end of May, and the weather\nwas very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart of hearts,\nMadame Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden.\n\n\"It isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we make\nthe best of it,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"Plenty of glass, I see,\" said Sir Felix. \"If one is to live in the\ncountry, I like that kind of thing. Carbury is a very poor place.\"\n\nThere was offence in this;--as though the Carbury property and the\nCarbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and\nthe Longestaffe position. Though dreadfully hampered for money,\nthe Longestaffes were great people. \"For a small place,\" said Lady\nPomona, \"I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the county. Of\ncourse it is not extensive.\"\n\n\"No, by Jove,\" said Sir Felix, \"you may say that, Lady Pomona. It's\nlike a prison to me with that moat round it.\" Then he jumped up and\njoined Marie Melmotte and Georgiana. Georgiana, glad to be released\nfor a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before she\nleft them together. She had understood that the two horses now in the\nrunning were Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would not\nprobably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to\ndestroy Lord Nidderdale.\n\nSir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,--as far as\nsuch willingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the\ncomfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert\nhimself. It was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and\ninduced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab.\nFor the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power\nreally to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was\nnot given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in\nwhich they offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by\nwhich a portion of Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his\nuses. In regard to feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own\ninclinations. He was by no means indifferent to such attraction. But\nMarie Melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. Such\nprettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth,\nand from a modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration\nfor the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own.\nThere was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something\nin the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have\nthoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she\nneed not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving that she\nwould abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to\nthe perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers.\nWhen alone,--and she was much alone,--she would build castles in\nthe air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems\nand gold. The books she read, poor though they generally were, left\nsomething bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant\nconversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life\nshe had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. Sir\nFelix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or\nthought that she knew, that she loved the man. And now she was with\nhim alone! Now surely had come the time in which some one of her\ncastles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.\n\n\"You know why I have come down here?\" he said.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"You know why I have come down here?\"]\n\n\n\"To see your cousin.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a\nmethodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief.\"\n\n\"How disagreeable!\"\n\n\"Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can\ntell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the\nLongestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are\nglad to see me?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Marie, who could not at once find that\nbrilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily\nenough in her solitude.\n\n\"Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?\"\n\n\"Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular.\"\n\n\"Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me.\" He paused\nas though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a\ncherry. \"I thought you told me that you would love me.\"\n\n\"Did I?\"\n\n\"Did you not?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it.\"\n\n\"Am I to believe that?\"\n\n\"Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself.\"\n\n\"By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellow\nmore in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it\nagain.\"\n\n\"To say what?\"\n\n\"Whether you'll accept me?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether you love me well enough.\" She longed to be told\nby him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but,\nwithout thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind\nof thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he\nwould have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her\nfather for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy\njaws of Mr. Melmotte which he almost feared. \"Do you really love me\nwell enough?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but\nyou know I love you.\"\n\n\"Do you?\"\n\n\"By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you.\nI did indeed.\"\n\nIt was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. \"Then I will love\nyou,\" she said. \"I will with all my heart.\"\n\n\"There's a darling!\"\n\n\"Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix\nnow;--mayn't I?\"\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You\nknow a great many men have asked me to love them.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least;--not in\nthe least.\"\n\n\"You do care for me?\"\n\n\"Oh yes.\" She looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he\nsaw that her eyes were swimming with tears. He thought at the moment\nthat she was very common to look at. As regarded appearance only he\nwould have preferred even Sophia Longestaffe. There was indeed a\ncertain brightness of truth which another man might have read in\nMarie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether\nupon him. They were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the\nhouse, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm\nround her waist and kissed her. \"Oh, Felix,\" she said, giving her\nface up to him; \"no one ever did it before.\" He did not in the least\nbelieve her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to\nhim. \"Say that you will be good to me, Felix. I will be so good to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Of course I will be good to you.\"\n\n\"Men are not always good to their wives. Papa is often very cross to\nmamma.\"\n\n\"I suppose he can be cross?\"\n\n\"Yes, he can. He does not often scold me. I don't know what he'll say\nwhen we tell him about this.\"\n\n\"But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?\"\n\n\"He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but\nI hated them both. I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale\nagain now. He hasn't said so, but mamma tells me. But I never\nwill;--never!\"\n\n\"I hope not, Marie.\"\n\n\"You needn't be a bit afraid. I would not do it if they were to kill\nme. I hate him,--and I do so love you.\" Then she leaned with all her\nweight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. \"You\nwill speak to papa; won't you?\"\n\n\"Will that be the best way?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. How else?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether Madame Melmotte ought not--\"\n\n\"Oh dear no. Nothing would induce her. She is more afraid of him\nthan anybody;--more afraid of him than I am. I thought the gentleman\nalways did that.\"\n\n\"Of course I'll do it,\" said Sir Felix. \"I'm not afraid of him. Why\nshould I? He and I are very good friends, you know.\"\n\n\"I'm glad of that.\"\n\n\"He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day.\"\n\n\"Did he? Perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law.\"\n\n\"There's no knowing;--is there?\"\n\n\"I hope he will. I shall like you for papa's son-in-law. I hope it\nisn't wrong to say that. Oh, Felix, say that you love me.\" Then she\nput her face up towards his again.\n\n\"Of course I love you,\" he said, not thinking it worth his while to\nkiss her. \"It's no good speaking to him here. I suppose I had better\ngo and see him in the city.\"\n\n\"He is in a good humour now,\" said Marie.\n\n\"But I couldn't get him alone. It wouldn't be the thing to do down\nhere.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"Not in the country,--in another person's house. Shall you tell\nMadame Melmotte?\"\n\n\"Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. Mamma\ndoes not care much about me. But I'll tell you all that another time.\nOf course I shall tell you everything now. I never yet had anybody to\ntell anything to, but I shall never be tired of telling you.\" Then\nhe left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. Mr.\nMelmotte was still sitting in the summer-house, and Lord Alfred was\nstill with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. As Sir Felix\npassed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much\nbetter that the interview should be postponed till they were all in\nLondon. Mr. Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour.\nSir Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte. Yes;\nhe hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and\nsister on the following day. He was aware that his cousin was not\ncoming. He believed that his cousin Roger never did go any where like\nany one else. No; he had not seen Mr. Longestaffe. He hoped to have\nthe pleasure of seeing him to-morrow. Then he escaped, and got on his\nhorse, and rode away.\n\n\"That's going to be the lucky man,\" said Georgiana to her mother,\nthat evening.\n\n\"In what way lucky?\"\n\n\"He is going to get the heiress and all the money. What a fool Dolly\nhas been!\"\n\n\"I don't think it would have suited Dolly,\" said Lady Pomona. \"After\nall, why should not Dolly marry a lady?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nRUBY RUGGLES HEARS A LOVE TALE.\n\n\nMiss Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of\nSheep's Acre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received\nthe following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier\non that Sunday morning;--\"A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone\nBirches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon.\" There was\nnot another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew well from\nwhom it came.\n\nDaniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerable\nwealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood as\nbeing somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. His wife was dead;--he\nhad quarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and\nhad banished him from his home;--his daughters were married and\naway; and the only member of his family who lived with him was his\ngranddaughter Ruby. And this granddaughter was a great trouble to the\nold man. She was twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a\nprosperous young man at Bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom\nold Ruggles had promised to give £500 on their marriage. But Ruby had\ntaken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and\npollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter.\nThough the writer had not dared to sign his name she knew well that\nit came from Sir Felix Carbury,--the most beautiful gentleman she had\never set her eyes upon. Poor Ruby Ruggles! Living down at Sheep's\nAcre, on the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little\nof the great world beyond her ken. There were, she thought, many\nglorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in\nthese her early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer\nin meal and pollard at Bungay. Therefore she was full of a wild\njoy, half joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore,\npunctually at four o'clock on that Sunday she was ensconced among\nthe Sheepstone Birches, so that she might see without much danger of\nbeing seen. Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress\nof herself at the time of her life in which she most required the\nkindness of a controlling hand!\n\nMr. Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is\ncalled a bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the\nproperty which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was\nstill set apart for its sustentation;--but he also held a small\nextent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so\nthat he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury. Those Sheepstone\nBirches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to Roger. On a\nformer occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder\nthan that which now existed, Felix had ridden over with the landlord\nto call on the old man, and had then first seen Ruby;--and had heard\nfrom Roger something of Ruby's history up to that date. It had then\nbeen just made known that she was to marry John Crumb. Since that\ntime not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl.\nMr. Carbury had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either\npostponed or abandoned,--but his growing dislike to the baronet had\nmade it very improbable that there should be any conversation between\nthem on the subject. Sir Felix, however, had probably heard more of\nRuby Ruggles than her grandfather's landlord.\n\nThere is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the\nordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that\nof such a girl as Ruby Ruggles. The rural day labourer and his wife\nlive on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. Their\naspirations, whether for good or evil,--whether for food and drink to\nbe honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first,\nto be come by either honestly or dishonestly,--are, if looked at at\nall, fairly visible. And with the men of the Ruggles class one can\ngenerally find out what they would be at, and in what direction\ntheir minds are at work. But the Ruggles woman,--especially the\nRuggles young woman,--is better educated, has higher aspirations and\na brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man.\nIf she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her\nthoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is\nto us, and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely\nstronger than are ours for heaven. Her education has been much better\nthan that of the man. She can read, whereas he can only spell words\nfrom a book. She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can\nbarely spell words out on a paper. Her tongue is more glib, and her\nintellect sharper. But her ignorance as to the reality of things\nis much more gross than his. By such contact as he has with men in\nmarkets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and even in the\nfields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition\nof his countrymen,--and, as to that which he does not learn, his\nimagination is obtuse. But the woman builds castles in the air, and\nwonders, and longs. To the young farmer the squire's daughter is a\nsuperior being very much out of his way. To the farmer's daughter the\nyoung squire is an Apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure,--by whom to\nbe looked at is a delight. The danger for the most part is soon over.\nThe girl marries after her kind, and then husband and children put\nthe matter at rest for ever.\n\nA mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as to\nthe world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to find.\nBut her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as\nthey were erroneous. Why should she with all her prettiness, and all\nher cleverness,--with all her fortune to boot,--marry that dustiest\nof all men, John Crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties\nof the things of which she had read in the books which came in her\nway? John Crumb was not bad-looking. He was a sturdy, honest fellow,\ntoo,--slow of speech but sure of his points when he had got them\nwithin his grip,--fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very\nsoul of industry at his work. But though she had known him all her\nlife she had never known him otherwise than dusty. The meal had so\ngotten within his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came\nout altogether even on Sundays. His normal complexion was a healthy\npallor, through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would\nmake themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to\nhis hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost\nthan a healthy young man. Nevertheless it was said of him that he\ncould thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundred weight of flour\nupon his back. And Ruby also knew this of him,--that he worshipped\nthe very ground on which she trod.\n\nBut, alas, she thought there might be something better than such\nworship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his\nbeautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair\nand lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for\nlove; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she\nthought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John\nCrumb's honest promises. But, though she was an utter fool, she was\nnot a fool without a principle. She was miserably ignorant; but she\ndid understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to\navoid. She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly\ninto the flame and not burn her wings. After her fashion she was\npretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on\nweek days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark\neyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself\nplainly beneath the soft brown skin. She was strong, and healthy, and\ntall,--and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old\nDaniel Ruggles, her grandfather.\n\nFelix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he\nmight return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse distant\nnot above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse. A narrow angle\nof the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate\nleading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had remembered when\nhe made his appointment. The road was no more than a country lane,\nunfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be deserted on Sundays.\nHe approached the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into\nthe wood. He had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet\nbeneath a tree standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but\non the bank of the ditch. Thinking for a moment what he would do\nabout his horse, he rode him into the field, and then, dismounting,\nfastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the copse. Then he\nsauntered on till he stood looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat\nbeneath the tree. \"I like your impudence,\" she said, \"in calling\nyourself a friend.\"\n\n\"Ain't I a friend, Ruby?\"\n\n\"A pretty sort of friend, you! When you was going away, you was to be\nback at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,--oh, ever so long ago\nnow.\"\n\n\"But I wrote to you, Ruby.\"\n\n\"What's letters? And the postman to know all as in 'em for anything\nanybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. I don't\ncall letters no good at all, and I beg you won't write 'em any more.\"\n\n\"Did he see them?\"\n\n\"No thanks to you if he didn't. I don't know why you are come here,\nSir Felix,--nor yet I don't know why I should come and meet you. It's\nall just folly like.\"\n\n\"Because I love you;--that's why I come; eh, Ruby? And you have come\nbecause you love me; eh, Ruby? Is not that about it?\" Then he threw\nhimself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist.\n\nIt would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other.\nThe happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half hour was no doubt\ncomplete. She had her London lover beside her; and though in every\nword he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love,\nand made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. He probably\ndid not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried\non the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a\nyoung man to do. He had begun to think that the odour of patchouli\nwas unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground\nhard, before the half hour was over. She felt that she could be\ncontent to sit there for ever and to listen to him. This was a\nrealisation of those delights of life of which she had read in the\nthrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little\ncirculating library at Bungay.\n\nBut what was to come next? She had not dared to ask him to marry\nher,--had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to\nask her to be his mistress. There was an animal courage about her,\nand an amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he\nhad learned to be aware. Before the half hour was over I think that\nhe wished himself away;--but when he did go, he made a promise to\nsee her again on the Tuesday morning. Her grandfather would be at\nHarlestone market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom\nof the kitchen garden belonging to the farm. As he made the promise\nhe resolved that he would not keep it. He would write to her again,\nand bid her come to him in London, and would send her money for the\njourney.\n\n\"I suppose I am to be his wedded wife,\" said Ruby to herself, as she\ncrept away down from the road, away also from her own home;--so that\non her return her presence should not be associated with that of the\nyoung man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road.\n\"I'll never be nothing unless I'm that,\" she said to herself. Then\nshe allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference\nbetween John Crumb and Sir Felix Carbury.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nHETTA CARBURY HEARS A LOVE TALE.\n\n\n\"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning,\" Felix said to his\nmother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was\nwalking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own\nroom.\n\n\"To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the\nLongestaffes!\"\n\n\"You could make any excuse you like about that.\"\n\n\"It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The\nLongestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the\ncountry. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living\nat Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with\nthem.\"\n\n\"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most\nintimate friend I have in the world.\"\n\n\"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother.\nAnd you should remember what you came here for.\"\n\n\"What did I come for?\"\n\n\"That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in\ntheir London house.\"\n\n\"That's all settled,\" said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone\nthat he could assume.\n\n\"Settled!\"\n\n\"As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old\nfellow for his consent down here.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?\"\n\n\"I told you that before.\"\n\n\"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!\" In her joy the mother took her unwilling\nson in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not\nonly to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make\nher son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by\nall mothers in England! \"No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so\nhappy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should\nbe fond of you.\"\n\n\"I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to\nit.\"\n\n\"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers\nalways do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?\"\n\n\"I don't know that he will.\"\n\n\"You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what he\nwants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be\nperfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year\nor so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the\nDirectors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true.\"\n\n\"I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being\nmarried? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her!\nDon't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You\nwill be able to do just what you please when once the question of\nher money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like,\nand you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must\nunderstand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on\nwithout an established income.\"\n\n\"I quite understand that.\"\n\n\"If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that\nkind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you\nlive. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to\nyou, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand\nhow well I think you have done it all.\" Then she caressed him again,\nand was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy.\nIf, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace\nand her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to\nthe world as a baronet with £20,000 a year, how glorious would it be!\nShe must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature\nhe was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour\nobliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character\nsometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all her\nfather's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for\nit, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken\nfrom her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established. He was\nher son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficient\nto elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. \"But, Felix,\"\nshe continued, \"you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes'\nto-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--\"\n\n\"Run away! What nonsense you talk.\"\n\n\"If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be an\naffront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You\nshould lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should.\"\n\n\"Oh, bother!\" said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to\nbe persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and\nhe consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending\nanother day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight,\ndid not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so\nstiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of\nthe world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her.\nThough he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted to\nherself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the\nsake of the family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He\nwould have received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta\nwould not be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have\ndelighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at\npresent. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with\nMr. Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.\n\nDuring the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his\ncousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quite\nlate, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at\nBungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury on\nthe way. \"What did you think of our bishop?\" Roger asked him, rather\nimprudently.\n\n\"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice\nlord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average\nlord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any\none sufficient to make him a bishop.\"\n\n\"Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in\nany matter of clerical conduct which might come before him.\"\n\n\"Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and\nwould not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your\nbishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far\nyour clergy consent to his teaching!\" Roger turned round and took up\nhis book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself\nalways abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's\nreligion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any\nmeans return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he\nto take up the cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the\ncombat, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather\nthan by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking\nelsewhere,--wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselves\naway in that castle of dulness, in which no cards were to be seen,\nand where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady\nCarbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all\nappliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own church\nmust be naught.\n\n\"I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs,\" she said with\nher sweetest smile.\n\n\"I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the\ntwo or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I\nhave not seen.\"\n\n\"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good\nincome. But they may be excellent men without being excellent\nbishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which\nthey are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to\nselect guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by\ninfinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority\nin the House of Commons?\"\n\n\"Indeed, no,\" said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understand\nthe nature of the question put to her.\n\n\"And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be\nable to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to\ndecide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?\"\n\n\"Hardly, indeed.\"\n\n\"The English people, or some of them,--that some being the richest,\nand, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church,\nthough there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control\nof a Church.\"\n\n\"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?\"\n\n\"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you\nmake that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit\nyourself to your spiritual pastors and masters.\"\n\n\"That, I thought, was for children,\" said Lady Carbury. \"The\nclergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'\"\n\n\"It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession\nof your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty\nwhen you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that\nthe matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and\nintended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want no\nreligion.\"\n\n\"I am afraid that is true of a great many.\"\n\n\"It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not\nbe driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless,\nindeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity.\"\n\n\"That is worse than anything,\" said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a\nshudder.\n\n\"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief,\"\nsaid the priest with energy;--\"than a creed which sits so easily\non a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never\nasks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or\nincredible.\"\n\n\"That is very bad,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"We're getting too deep, I think,\" said Roger, putting down the book\nwhich he had in vain been trying to read.\n\n\"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on\nSunday evening,\" said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back into\nhis chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that\nLady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be\naware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be\nall the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond\nof ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into\nconviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to\nhear arguments.\n\n\"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of,\" said Roger.\n\n\"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it,\"\nsaid the priest.\n\n\"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended,\" said Roger, rising\nfrom his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walked\naway to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be\nthat he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to\nplough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.\n\nThe following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for\nrepeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be\nso, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that\nSunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he\nhad determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of\na certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards\nhim. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to\nroughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he\ngreeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She\ncherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if\nhe expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she\nwould attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality,\nand she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not\na glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch,\nand calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she was\ntender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself\nto believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thought\nthat he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great\nwas his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her\nmother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with\nhim against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in\npity,--she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read it\nalmost with exact accuracy.\n\n\"Hetta,\" he said after breakfast, \"come out into the garden awhile.\"\n\n\"Are not you going to the men?\"\n\n\"Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it.\"\nShe put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she\nhad been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon\nas she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be\nrepeated again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she\nhad hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That\nshe could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well\nthat she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for\nher love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in\nspite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling\nof tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her\nto declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply\nbecause he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so\ndevoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified\nin refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard\nto the Melmottes. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr.\nMelmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. There was\nnothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's conduct\nand bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear\nnor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because a\ngirl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility and\ntenderness and truth were lovely!\n\n\"Hetta,\" he said, \"put your arm here.\" She gave him her arm. \"I was a\nlittle annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him,\nand now he is always turning against me.\"\n\n\"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?\"\n\n\"He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of\nthose things which we have been brought up to revere.\" So, thought\nHenrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church.\n\"He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of\nbelieving, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his.\nI didn't quite like your hearing it.\"\n\n\"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given.\nI suppose they all do it. It's their business.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity\nthat a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside\nof a comfortable house.\"\n\n\"I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the\nbishop.\"\n\n\"And I like him.\" Then there was a pause. \"I suppose your brother\ndoes not talk to you much about his own affairs.\"\n\n\"His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to\nme about money.\"\n\n\"I meant about the Melmottes.\"\n\n\"No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything.\"\n\n\"I wonder whether she has accepted him.\"\n\n\"I think she very nearly did accept him in London.\"\n\n\"I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about\nthis marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does\nthe necessity of money.\"\n\n\"Felix is so disposed to be extravagant.\"\n\n\"Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring\nmyself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite\nrecognise her unselfish devotion to his interests.\"\n\n\"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything,\" said Hetta, not in the\nleast intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.\n\n\"I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child\nwould better repay her devotion,\"--this he said, looking up to Hetta\nand smiling,--\"I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You\nknow, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel.\"\n\n\"I felt that there was something unpleasant.\"\n\n\"And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old\nand cross, or I should not mind such things.\"\n\n\"I think you are so good,--and so kind.\" As she said this she leaned\nupon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved\nhim.\n\n\"I have been angry with myself,\" he said, \"and so I am making you my\nfather confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and\nI think that you would understand me better than your mother.\"\n\n\"I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess.\"\n\n\"You will not exact any penance?\" She only looked at him and smiled.\n\"I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't\ncongratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know\nnothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about\nthings in general.\"\n\n\"Will that be a penance?\"\n\n\"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of\nfretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things.\nDidn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday\ninstead of going to church?\"\n\n\"But then he was travelling all the Saturday night.\"\n\n\"Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of the\noffence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over\nthe head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had\na right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on\nSunday;--and therefore I must do penance.\"\n\nThere was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did not\nwish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a\nfriend,--as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without\nmaking love to her, how happy could she be! But his determination\nstill held good. \"And now,\" said he, altering his tone altogether, \"I\nmust speak about myself.\" Immediately the weight of her hand upon his\narm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed\nher arm to his. \"No,\" he said; \"do not make any change towards me\nwhile I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be\ncousins and friends.\"\n\n\"Always friends!\" she said.\n\n\"Yes;--always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say.\nI will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you\nmust think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that\nI love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing\nonly, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine\nmyself to single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my\nlove. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because\nI think of it so much. For, after all, let a woman be ever so\ngood,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allow\nhis love to dominate his intellect.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\"\n\n\"I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man\nmight calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me\njust as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you\nby a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am\nsure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this\nhouse during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do,\nand to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as\nyour husband.\"\n\n\"Pray,--pray do not say that.\"\n\n\"Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expect\nthat you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you\ndo not love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that\nyou should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because\nI am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you\nmight come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given away\nelsewhere.\"\n\n\"What am I to say?\"\n\n\"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague\nhas robbed me of my love--?\"\n\n\"Mr. Montague has never said a word.\"\n\n\"If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house,\nand I think must have known what my feelings were towards you.\"\n\n\"But he never has.\"\n\n\"We have been like brothers together,--one brother being very much\nolder than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he\nshould place his hopes elsewhere.\"\n\n\"What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think\nit almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way.\"\n\n\"Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know the\nway of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about\nPaul Montague,--no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world\nto me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love\neven me, if you loved no one else.\" The tone of his voice was manly,\nand at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her\nwere bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to\nthe tale which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether.\nShe knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean,\ntrusting to it for comfort and protection in life. In that moment she\nall but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her\nthen, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She\nso regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved,\nshe would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit, and\nwould have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refused\nhim. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so\nthoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, but\ncontinued to walk beside him trembling. \"I thought I would tell it\nyou all, because I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind.\nI would show you if I could all my heart and all my thoughts about\nyourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if you\ncan feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a\nwoman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life\nbright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly\nParadise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the\nsake of a girlish scruple.\"\n\n\"Oh, Roger!\"\n\n\"If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly,\nremember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall never\nchange. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him,\nit will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all\nnow. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope,--I hope I may be\nstrong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than of\nmy own.\" Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of\nthe bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nLADY POMONA'S DINNER PARTY.\n\n\nRoger Carbury's half formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home while\nLady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to the\nground. It was to be carried out only in the event of Hetta's\nyielding to his prayer. But he had in fact not made a prayer, and\nHetta had certainly yielded nothing. When the evening came, Lady\nCarbury started with her son and daughter, and Roger was left alone.\nIn the ordinary course of his life he was used to solitude. During\nthe greater part of the year he would eat and drink and live without\ncompanionship; so that there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in\nthis desertion. But on the present occasion he could not prevent\nhimself from dwelling on the loneliness of his lot in life. These\ncousins of his who were his guests cared nothing for him. Lady\nCarbury had come to his house simply that it might be useful to her;\nSir Felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy;\nand Hetta herself, though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft\nand gracious through pity rather than love. On this day he had, in\ntruth, asked her for nothing; but he had almost brought himself to\nthink that she might give all that he wanted without asking. And yet,\nwhen he told her of the greatness of his love, and of its endurance,\nshe was simply silent. When the carriage taking them to dinner went\naway down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of\nthe house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling\nhimself that there was nothing left for him in life.\n\nIf ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul\nMontague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he\nvalued in the world. His thoughts were not logical, nor was his\nmind exact. The more he considered it, the stronger was his inward\ncondemnation of his friend. He had never mentioned to anyone the\nservices he had rendered to Montague. In speaking of him to Hetta he\nhad alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. But\nhe felt that because of those services his friend Montague had owed\nit to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought\nthat if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, Montague should\nhave retired as soon as he learned the truth. He could not bring\nhimself to forgive his friend, even though Hetta had assured him that\nhis friend had never spoken to her of love. He was sore all over, and\nit was Paul Montague who made him sore. Had there been no such man at\nCarbury when Hetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of\nthe house. He sat there till the servant came to tell him that his\ndinner was on the table. Then he crept in and ate,--so that the man\nmight not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in\nhis hand seeming to read. But he read not a word, for his mind was\nfixed altogether on his cousin Hetta. \"What a poor creature a man\nis,\" he said to himself, \"who is not sufficiently his own master to\nget over a feeling like this.\"\n\nAt Caversham there was a very grand party,--as grand almost as a\ndinner party can be in the country. There were the Earl and Countess\nof Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the bishop\nand his wife, and the Hepworths. These, with the Carburys and\nthe parson's family, and the people staying in the house, made\ntwenty-four at the dinner table. As there were fourteen ladies and\nonly ten men, the banquet can hardly be said to have been very well\narranged. But those things cannot be done in the country with the\nexactness which the appliances of London make easy; and then the\nLongestaffes, though they were decidedly people of fashion, were\nnot famous for their excellence in arranging such matters. If aught,\nhowever, was lacking in exactness, it was made up in grandeur. There\nwere three powdered footmen, and in that part of the country Lady\nPomona alone was served after this fashion; and there was a very\nheavy butler, whose appearance of itself was sufficient to give éclat\nto a family. The grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown\nopen, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered.\nIt was not above once in the year that this kind of thing was done\nat Caversham; but when it was done, nothing was spared which could\ncontribute to the magnificence of the fête. Lady Pomona and her two\ntall daughters standing up to receive the little Countess of Loddon\nand Lady Jane Pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat\nsmaller scale, while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though\nashamed of themselves, was a sight to see. Then the Carburys came,\nand then Mrs. Yeld with the bishop. The grand room was soon fairly\nfull; but nobody had a word to say. The bishop was generally a man\nof much conversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were well pleased\nwith her listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. But on\nthis occasion nobody could utter a word. Lord Loddon pottered about,\nmaking a feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. Lord\nAlfred stood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand.\nThat much greater man, Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the\narm-holes of his waistcoat, and was impassible. The bishop saw at a\nglance the hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. The\nmaster of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and\nthen devoted his mind to expectation of the next comer. Lady Pomona\nand her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb.\nIn accordance with the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been entertained\ncivilly for four entire days. It could not be expected that the\nladies of Caversham should come forth unwearied after such a\nstruggle.\n\nWhen dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie\nMelmotte. There can be no doubt but that the Caversham ladies did\nexecute their part of the treaty. They were led to suppose that this\narrangement would be desirable to the Melmottes, and they made it.\nThe great Augustus himself went in with Lady Carbury, much to her\nsatisfaction. She also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now,\nif ever, it would be her duty to exert herself. \"I hope you like\nSuffolk,\" she said.\n\n\"Pretty well, I thank you. Oh, yes;--very nice place for a little\nfresh air.\"\n\n\"Yes;--that's just it, Mr. Melmotte. When the summer comes one does\nlong so to see the flowers.\"\n\n\"We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down here,\"\nsaid Mr. Melmotte.\n\n\"No doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world\nat large. What is there that money will not do? It can turn a London\nstreet into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in Grosvenor\nSquare.\"\n\n\"It's a very nice place, is London.\"\n\n\"If you have got plenty of money, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it. Do you\nlive in London, ma'am?\" He had quite forgotten Lady Carbury even if\nhe had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common\nto men, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to\ndinner.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I live in London. I have had the honour of being\nentertained by you there.\" This she said with her sweetest smile.\n\n\"Oh, indeed. So many do come, that I don't always just remember.\"\n\n\"How should you,--with all the world flocking round you? I am Lady\nCarbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you will\nremember.\"\n\n\"Yes; I know Sir Felix. He's sitting there, next to my daughter.\"\n\n\"Happy fellow!\"\n\n\"I don't know much about that. Young men don't get their happiness in\nthat way now. They've got other things to think of.\"\n\n\"He thinks so much of his business.\"\n\n\"Oh! I didn't know,\" said Mr. Melmotte.\n\n\"He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Oh;--that's his business!\" said Mr. Melmotte, with a grim smile.\n\nLady Carbury was very clever as to many things, and was not\nill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but\nshe did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as\nto the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she saw\nthe names in a catalogue. \"I trust that he is diligent, there,\" she\nsaid; \"and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in\nhaving the advantage of your counsel and guidance.\"\n\n\"He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him much.\"\nAfter this Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's position in the\ncity. She endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation;\nbut she found Mr. Melmotte to be heavy on her hands. After a while\nshe had to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in\nfavour of Protestantism at the bidding of the Caversham parson, who\nsat on the other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm\nby some mention of Father Barham's name.\n\nOpposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. \"I\nhave told mamma,\" Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner\nwith him. She was now full of the idea so common to girls who are\nengaged,--and as natural as it is common,--that she might tell\neverything to her lover.\n\n\"Did she say anything?\" he asked. Then Marie had to take her place\nand arrange her dress before she could reply to him. \"As to her, I\nsuppose it does not matter what she says, does it?\"\n\n\"She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not\nrich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear.\"\nSo much she had been able to say during the bustle.\n\nFelix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the\nsubject very willingly. \"Have you been riding?\" he asked.\n\n\"No; I don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is.\nHow did you get home? Did you have any adventures?\"\n\n\"None at all,\" said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. \"I just rode\nhome quietly. I go to town to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long.\" This\nshe said bringing her voice down to a whisper.\n\n\"Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the\ncity. Does he go every day?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's\ngood-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very\ncross. He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him\nthen. Lord Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come,\nand they play cards. I think the city will be best.\"\n\n\"You'll stick to it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will\never turn me. I think papa knows that.\" Felix looked at her as\nshe said this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance\nthan he had ever read there before. Perhaps she would consent to\nrun away with him; and, if so, being the only child, she would\ncertainly,--almost certainly,--be forgiven. But if he were to\nrun away with her and marry her, and then find that she were not\nforgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to starve without a shilling\nof fortune, where would he be then? Looking at the matter in all its\nbearings, considering among other things the trouble and the expense\nof such a measure, he thought that he could not afford to run away\nwith her.\n\nAfter dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the\nsame big room in which they had been assembled before the\nfeast,--seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation. Again nobody\ntalked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the\ncarriages were there to take them all home. \"They arranged that you\nshould sit next to her,\" said Lady Carbury to her son, as they were\nin the carriage.\n\n\"Oh, I suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young\nwoman, you know.\"\n\n\"Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it\nunless they had thought that it would please Mr. Melmotte. Oh, Felix!\nif you can bring it about.\"\n\n\"I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it.\"\n\n\"No, I won't. You cannot wonder that I should be anxious. You behaved\nbeautifully to her at dinner; I was so happy to see you together.\nGood night, Felix, and God bless you!\" she said again, as they were\nparting for the night. \"I shall be the happiest and the proudest\nmother in England if this comes about.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nEVERYBODY GOES TO THEM.\n\n\nWhen the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very desolate.\nThe task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the\nreturn to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have\nbeen comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. But this\nwas so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed\nwithout anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill\nthe minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longestaffe. Georgiana was also\nimpatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which\nher mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she\nthought, would not dare to propose it. On each of these days,--three\nor four times daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but\nwithout avail. Mr. Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed\ntill he had received some particular letter, and would not even\nlisten to the suggestion of a day. \"I suppose we can go at any rate\non Tuesday,\" Georgiana said on the Friday evening. \"I don't know why\nyou should suppose anything of the kind,\" the father replied. Poor\nLady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day;\nbut Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her\nyounger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion.\nOn the Sunday morning before they went to church there was a great\ndiscussion up-stairs. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach\nat Caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their\nbest London bonnets. They were in their mother's room, having just\ncompleted the arrangements of their church-going toilet. It was\nsupposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longestaffe had\ncertainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet\nvouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than\nordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so Sophia asserted,--more\ndisagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen especially in\nreference to their bonnets. \"You might as well wear them,\" said Lady\nPomona, \"for I am sure you will not be in London again this year.\"\n\n\"You don't mean it, mamma,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into\nhis pocket. I know what his face means so well.\"\n\n\"It is not possible,\" said Sophia. \"He promised, and he got us to\nhave those horrid people because he promised.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose\nwe must take his word for it. It is he must decide of course. What he\nmeant I suppose was, that he would take us back if he could.\"\n\n\"Mamma!\" shouted Georgiana. Was there to be treachery not only on the\npart of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had\nbound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own\ncamp!\n\n\"My dear, what can we do?\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"Do!\" Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. \"Make him\nunderstand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. I'll do\nsomething, if that's going to be the way of it. If he treats me like\nthat I'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be\nwho it may.\"\n\n\"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me.\"\n\n\"I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us,--not the\nleast,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much\nabout the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a\nslave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here.\" The\nyounger Miss Longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before\nher.\n\n\"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that,\" pleaded her\nsister.\n\n\"It's all very well for you, Sophy. You've got George Whitstable.\"\n\n\"I haven't got George Whitstable.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he\npleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course it makes no\ndifference to you, mamma, where you are.\"\n\n\"You are very unjust,\" said Lady Pomona, wailing, \"and you say horrid\nthings.\"\n\n\"I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you. And Sophy is the\nsame as settled. But I'm to be sacrificed! How am I to see anybody\ndown here in this horrid hole? Papa promised and he must keep his\nword.\"\n\nThen there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall.\n\"Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the\ncarriage waiting all day?\" Of course they were all going to church.\nThey always did go to church when they were at Caversham; and would\nmore especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of\nthe bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage,\nLady Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her\nfather at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not\na word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. During\nthe service Mr. Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and\nrepeated the responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty he\nhad been an example to the parish all his life. The three ladies\nknelt on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during\nthe sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of\nattention. They did not collect the meaning of any one combination of\nsentences. It was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not\na meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop\npreached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would\nnot have complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled\nGeorgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the\nproper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the\nfair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. But\nto be kept at Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a\nbishop preach for ever! After the service they came back to lunch,\nand that meal also was eaten in silence. When it was over the head\nof the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently\nmeaning to be left alone there. In that case he would have meditated\nupon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got\nthrough the afternoon with comfort. But this was denied to him. The\ntwo daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed;\nand Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room,\nreturned when she found that her daughters would not follow her.\nGeorgiana had told her sister that she meant to \"have it out\"\nwith her father, and Sophia had of course remained in the room\nin obedience to her sister's behest. When the last tray had been\ntaken out, Georgiana began. \"Papa, don't you think you could settle\nnow when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know\nabout engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on\nWednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago.\"\n\n\"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your\nengagement.\"\n\n\"But why not, papa? We could go up on Wednesday morning.\"\n\n\"You can't do anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed,\" said Lady\nPomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state\nof mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time,\nas a compromise.\n\n\"Then you can't have a day fixed,\" said Mr. Longestaffe.\n\n\"How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?\" said Sophia, in\na low constrained voice.\n\n\"I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home,\nand this is where you may make up your minds to live.\"\n\n\"But we are to go back?\" demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by in\nsilence, listening, resolving, and biding her time.\n\n\"You'll not return to London this season,\" said Mr. Longestaffe,\nturning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands.\n\n\"Do you mean that that is settled?\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"I mean to say that that is settled,\" said Mr. Longestaffe.\n\nWas there ever treachery like this! The indignation in Georgiana's\nmind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's\nfalseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise.\nShe would not have contaminated herself with the Melmottes but\nfor that promise. And now she was told that the promise was to be\nabsolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get\nback to London,--even to the house of the hated Primeros,--without\nabsolutely running away from her father's residence! \"Then, papa,\"\nshe said, with affected calmness, \"you have simply and with\npremeditation broken your word to us.\"\n\n\"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!\"\n\n\"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own\nmistress,--by law.\"\n\n\"Then go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father,\nthat I have premeditated a falsehood! If you tell me that again, you\nshall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house.\"\n\n\"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and\nentertain these people?\"\n\n\"I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are.\nIf I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It\nshould be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have\nto live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be\nsullen where I shan't see you.\" Georgiana looked round on her mother\nand sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still\nmeditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her\nfather's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into\nthe room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting\nwith anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils.\n\n\n[Illustration: She marched majestically out of the room.]\n\n\n\"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?\" she said.\n\n\"What can we do, my dear?\"\n\n\"I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and\nhave my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved\nwell to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about\nthem.\" This was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some\nlittle trouble of that kind. \"I have never got myself talked about\nwith any body. If there is anything to be done I always do it. I have\nwritten his letters for him till I have been sick, and when you were\nill I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two\nat the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my\nbedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us\nback to London! Did he not promise, mamma?\"\n\n\"I understood so, my dear.\"\n\n\"You know he promised, mamma. If I do anything now he must bear the\nblame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of\nthe family, and then be treated in that way.\"\n\n\"You do that for your own sake, I suppose,\" said her sister.\n\n\"It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake,\" said\nGeorgiana, alluding to a very old affair,--to an ancient flirtation,\nin the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a\nfutile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private\nfortune was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the\naffair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness.\n\n\"I've kept myself as straight as you have,\" said Sophia. \"It's easy\nenough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and\nnobody cares for a person.\"\n\n\"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?\" said their mother.\n\n\"It is I that have to suffer,\" continued Georgiana. \"Does he expect\nme to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is\nnot much; but there is nobody else at all.\"\n\n\"You may have him if you like,\" said Sophia, with a chuck of her\nhead.\n\n\"Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come\nto that quite yet.\"\n\n\"You were talking of running away with somebody.\"\n\n\"I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of that.\nI'll tell you what I shall do,--I will write papa a letter. I suppose\nhe'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself,\nhe must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the\nwhole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the\nMelmottes down in the country. In London one does those things, but\nto have them here was terrible!\"\n\nDuring that entire afternoon nothing more was said. Not a word passed\nbetween them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities\nof life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father,\nand Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almost\nreconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a\nfitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable\nat a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a\ndifference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which\nwas always an excuse with her for not speaking;--and Mr. Longestaffe\nwent to sleep. Georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart,\nand on the next morning the head of the family found the following\nletter on his dressing-table;--\n\n\n   MY DEAR PAPA,--\n\n   I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel\n   that our going up to town is so very important to us. If\n   we are not to be in London at this time of the year we can\n   never see anybody, and of course you know what that must\n   mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not\n   signify for her, and, though mamma likes London, it is not\n   of real importance. But it is very, very hard upon me. It\n   isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so\n   very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down\n   here at Caversham, I might just as well be dead at once.\n   If you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for\n   two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in\n   the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad,\n   and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And\n   there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very\n   cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to\n   run up bills. But if you would only think what Caversham\n   must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within\n   twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here.\n\n   You certainly did say that if we would come down here with\n   those Melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you\n   cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we\n   are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes\n   me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see\n   other girls having such chances when I have none, that\n   sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me.\n\nThis was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to\nthat threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with\nsomebody.\n\n   I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take\n   us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but I\n   hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It\n   would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to\n   stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and\n   I should not in the least object to reminding her, only\n   it should be done at once. Their house in Queen's Gate is\n   very large, and I know they've a room. They all ride, and\n   I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else,\n   as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides\n   with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at\n   once, papa.\n\n   Your affectionate daughter,\n\n   GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.\n\n\nMr. Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. He, though he\nhad rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to\nsome extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his\nauthority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the\nless did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He\nthought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. If\nnot, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly\nhated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not\nread much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating\nand drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. To\nstand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which\nhe belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what\nhe liked better than anything else in the world. But he was quite\nwilling to give this up for the good of his family. He would be\ncontented to drag through long listless days at Caversham, and\nendeavour to nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it.\nBy assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether\nunserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's\nheads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving,\nthe grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into\ndebt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that\nthis was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son\nfrom his wife's mother,--some £2,000 or £3,000 a year, magnified by\nthe world into double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had\nfor a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family\nestates. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would have\nconsented to sell the Sussex property in order that the Suffolk\nproperty might be relieved. But Dolly was now in debt himself, and\nthough in other respects the most careless of men, was always on his\nguard in any dealings with his father. He would not consent to the\nsale of the Sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at\nonce handed to himself. The father could not bring himself to consent\nto this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world\nvery hard upon him. Melmotte had done something for him,--but in\ndoing this Melmotte was very hard and tyrannical. Melmotte, when at\nCaversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly\nthat with such an establishment in the country he was not entitled\nto keep a house in town. Mr. Longestaffe had then said something\nabout his daughters,--something especially about Georgiana,--and Mr.\nMelmotte had made a suggestion.\n\nMr. Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for\nher, in spite of his anger. But if there was one man he hated more\nthan another, it was his neighbour Mr. Primero; and if one woman, it\nwas Mrs. Primero. Primero, whom Mr. Longestaffe regarded as quite\nan upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He\npaid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of Caversham\nwithout seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction.\nHe had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and\nborough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan\ndistrict. He was a radical, of course, or, according to Mr.\nLongestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the\nradical side because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting\non the other. And now there had come into Suffolk a rumour that Mr.\nPrimero was to have a peerage. To others the rumour was incredible,\nbut Mr. Longestaffe believed it, and to Mr. Longestaffe that belief\nwas an agony. A Baron Bundlesham just at his door, and such a Baron\nBundlesham, would be more than Mr. Longestaffe could endure. It was\nquite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in London by\nthe Primeros.\n\nBut another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been\nlaid on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following\nmorning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by\nletter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed\nher a note to read. \"Your papa has this moment given it me. Of course\nyou must judge for yourself.\" This was the note;--\n\n\n   MY DEAR MR. LONGESTAFFE,\n\n   As you seem determined not to return to London this\n   season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to\n   come to us. Mrs. Melmotte would be delighted to have Miss\n   Georgiana for June and July. If so, she need only give\n   Mrs. Melmotte a day's notice.\n\n   Yours truly,\n\n   AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.\n\n\nGeorgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note\npaper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date.\nIt was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her\nfather's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very\nhard. Both her father and mother had heard her speak of these\nMelmottes, and knew what she thought of them. There was an insolence\nin the very suggestion. But at the first moment she said nothing of\nthat. \"Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros?\" she asked.\n\n\"Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially.\"\n\n\"And I dislike the Melmottes. I dislike the Primeros of course, but\nthey are not so bad as the Melmottes. That would be dreadful.\"\n\n\"You must judge for yourself, Georgiana.\"\n\n\"It is that,--or staying here?\"\n\n\"I think so, my dear.\"\n\n\"If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind. It will be awfully\ndisagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!\"\n\n\"She seemed to be very quiet.\"\n\n\"Pooh, mamma! Quiet! She was quiet here because she was afraid of us.\nShe isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that\nif I'm in the house with her. And then she is, oh! so frightfully\nvulgar! She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did\nyou not see it, mamma? She could not even open her mouth, she was\nso ashamed of herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be\nsomething quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything\nso dreadful to look at as he is?\"\n\n\"Everybody goes to them,\" said Lady Pomona. \"The Duchess of Stevenage\nhas been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld Reekie.\nEverybody goes to their house.\"\n\n\"But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mamma,--to have to\nsit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that\nwoman!\"\n\n\"Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs.\"\n\n\"But to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her!\nOnly think of it!\"\n\n\"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear.\"\n\n\"Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mamma? And, oh\ndear, I am so tired of it! Pleasure, indeed! Papa talks of pleasure.\nIf papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think\nof it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I\nshall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people! And papa to propose\nit, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so\nmuch of being with the right set.\"\n\n\"Things are changed, Georgiana,\" said the anxious mother.\n\n\"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like\nthat. Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman\ncompared with Mr. Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with\nMadame Melmotte. But I'll go. If papa chooses me to be seen with such\npeople it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing one's self\nafter that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would\npropose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be\nsurprised if I take some horrid creature from the Stock Exchange.\nPapa has altered his ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter\nmine.\"\n\nGeorgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona\ninformed Mr. Longestaffe that Mr. Melmotte's invitation was to be\naccepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte, and\nGeorgiana would go up on the Friday following. \"I hope she'll like\nit,\" said Mr. Longestaffe. The poor man had no intention of irony. It\nwas not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor\nLady Pomona the words sounded very cruel. How could any one like to\nlive in a house with Mr. and Madame Melmotte!\n\nOn the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two\nsisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station,\nwhich was almost touching. She had endeavoured to hold up her head as\nusual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her\neven in the presence of her sister. \"Sophy, I do so envy you staying\nhere.\"\n\n\"But it was you who were so determined to be in London.\"\n\n\"Yes; I was determined, and am determined. I've got to get myself\nsettled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you are not\ngoing to disgrace yourself.\"\n\n\"There's no disgrace in it, Georgey.\"\n\n\"Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and\nI believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their\npretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. The footmen and\nhousemaids would be much better.\"\n\n\"Then don't go, Georgey.\"\n\n\"I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain\ndown here everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going\nto marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place,\nbut there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of\nfellow.\"\n\n\"Is he, now?\"\n\n\"Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at\nhome. But he is a gentleman.\"\n\n\"That he certainly is.\"\n\n\"As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first\nman that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll take\nhim, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam. And I shall always\nsay it has been papa's doing.\"\n\nAnd so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the\nMelmottes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nLORD NIDDERDALE'S MORALITY.\n\n\nIt was very generally said in the city about this time that the Great\nSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best thing\nout. It was known that Mr. Melmotte had gone into it with heart and\nhand. There were many who declared,--with gross injustice to the\nGreat Fisker,--that the railway was Melmotte's own child, that he had\ninvented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it; but it was\nnot the less popular on that account. A railway from Salt Lake City\nto Mexico no doubt had much of the flavour of a castle in Spain.\nOur far-western American brethren are supposed to be imaginative.\nMexico has not a reputation among us for commercial security, or\nthat stability which produces its four, five, or six per cent. with\nthe regularity of clockwork. But there was the Panama railway, a\nsmall affair which had paid twenty-five per cent.; and there was the\ngreat line across the continent to San Francisco, in which enormous\nfortunes had been made. It came to be believed that men with their\neyes open might do as well with the Great South Central as had ever\nbeen done before with other speculations, and this belief was no\ndoubt founded on Mr. Melmotte's partiality for the enterprise. Mr.\nFisker had \"struck 'ile\" when he induced his partner, Montague, to\ngive him a note to the great man.\n\nPaul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man having\nhis eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn how\nthe thing was progressing. At the regular meetings of the Board,\nwhich never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read\nby Miles Grendall. Melmotte himself would speak a few slow words,\nintended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph, and then\neverybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something,\nand the \"Board\" for that day would be over. To Paul Montague this was\nvery unsatisfactory. More than once or twice he endeavoured to stay\nthe proceedings, not as disapproving, but \"simply as desirous of\nbeing made to understand;\" but the silent scorn of his chairman put\nhim out of countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was\na barrier which he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred\nGrendall would declare that he \"did not think all that was at all\nnecessary.\" Lord Nidderdale, with whom Montague had now become\nintimate at the Beargarden, would nudge him in the ribs and bid him\nhold his tongue. Mr. Cohenlupe would make a little speech in fluent\nbut broken English, assuring the Committee that everything was being\ndone after the approved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two\nmeetings, was never there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely\nburdened conscience, was carried along as one of the Directors of the\nGreat South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company.\n\nI do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier,\nby the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly very\ncomfortable. The Company had not yet been in existence quite six\nweeks,--or at any rate Melmotte had not been connected with it above\nthat time,--and it had already been suggested to him twice that he\nshould sell fifty shares at £112 10_s_. He did not even yet know how\nmany shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to the\nproposal, and on the following day received a cheque for £625,--that\nsum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price\nof £100 a share. The suggestion was made to him by Miles Grendall,\nand when he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares\nhad been allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged in\naccordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final\ndisposition of the Californian property. \"But from what we see, old\nfellow,\" said Miles, \"I don't think you have anything to fear. You\nseem to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise\nyou to sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a\ncertain income as far as you are concerned.\"\n\nPaul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was\nstanding on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any\nmoment. The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty,\nof the whole thing, made him often very miserable. In those wretched\nmoments his conscience was asserting itself. But again there were\ntimes in which he also was almost triumphant, and in which he felt\nthe delight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the Board when\nhe wanted explanations, he received very great attention outside the\nboard-room from those connected with the enterprise. Melmotte had\nasked him to dine two or three times. Mr. Cohenlupe had begged him to\ngo down to his little place at Rickmansworth,--an entreaty with which\nMontague had not as yet complied. Lord Alfred was always gracious to\nhim, and Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him\none of their set at the club. Many other houses became open to him\nfrom the same source. Though Melmotte was supposed to be the inventor\nof the railway, it was known that Fisker, Montague, and Montague were\nlargely concerned in it, and it was known also that Paul Montague was\none of the Montagues named in that firm. People, both in the City and\nthe West End, seemed to think that he knew all about it, and treated\nhim as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at his\ndisposition. There were results from this which were not unpleasing\nto the young man. He only partially resisted the temptation; and\nthough determined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so\ndetermined only at times. The money was very pleasant to him. The\nperiod would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be\npledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carbury; and when\nthat period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to\nknow that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to\ngive a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations, and in all\nhis fears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre of\nhis hopes. Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, it may be feared\nthat she would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him from her\nheart.\n\nThere was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the\nDirectors, and a disposition to complain against the Grand Director,\narising from a grievance altogether different from that which\nafflicted Montague. Neither had Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord Nidderdale\nbeen invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them\nhad received any remuneration for the use of their names. They\nknew well that Montague had sold shares. He was quite open on the\nsubject, and had told Felix, whom he hoped some day to regard\nas his brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for\nhow much;--and the two men had endeavoured to make the matter\nintelligible between themselves. The original price of the shares\nbeing £100 each, and £12 10_s._ a share having been paid to Montague\nas the premium, it was to be supposed that the original capital was\nre-invested in other shares. But each owned to the other that the\nmatter was very complicated to him, and Montague could only write\nto Hamilton K. Fisker at San Francisco asking for explanation. As\nyet he had received no answer. But it was not the wealth flowing\ninto Montague's hands which embittered Nidderdale and Carbury. They\nunderstood that he had really brought money into the concern, and was\ntherefore entitled to take money out of it. Nor did it occur to them\nto grudge Melmotte his more noble pickings, for they knew how great\na man was Melmotte. Of Cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he\nwas a regular city man, and had probably supplied funds. Cohenlupe\nwas too deep for their inquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had\nsold shares, and had received the profit; and they knew also how\nutterly impossible it was that Lord Alfred should have produced\ncapital. If Lord Alfred Grendall was entitled to plunder, why were\nnot they? And if their day for plunder had not yet come, why had\nLord Alfred's? And if there was so much cause to fear Lord Alfred\nthat it was necessary to throw him a bone, why should not they\nalso make themselves feared? Lord Alfred passed all his time with\nMelmotte,--had, as these young men said, become Melmotte's head\nvalet,--and therefore had to be paid. But that reason did not satisfy\nthe young men.\n\n\"You haven't sold any shares;--have you?\" This question Sir Felix\nasked Lord Nidderdale at the club. Nidderdale was constant in his\nattendance at the Board, and Felix was not a little afraid that he\nmight be jockied also by him.\n\n\"Not a share.\"\n\n\"Nor got any profits?\"\n\n\"Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my only\ntransaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner.\"\n\n\"What do you get then, by going into the city?\" asked Sir Felix.\n\n\"I'm blessed if I know what I get. I suppose something will turn up\nsome day.\"\n\n\"In the meantime, you know, there are our names. And Grendall is\nmaking a fortune out of it.\"\n\n\"Poor old duffer,\" said his lordship. \"If he's doing so well, I think\nMiles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think\nwe ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready\nwhen that bill of Vossner's comes round.\"\n\n\"Yes, by George; let's tell him that. Will you do it?\"\n\n\"Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural to\nhim to pay anything.\"\n\n\"Fellows used to pay their gambling debts,\" said Sir Felix, who was\nstill in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of I. O.\nU.'s.\n\n\"They don't now,--unless they like it. How did a fellow manage\nbefore, if he hadn't got it?\"\n\n\"He went smash,\" said Sir Felix, \"and disappeared and was never heard\nof any more. It was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. I\nbelieve a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!\"\n\n\"I shouldn't,\" said Lord Nidderdale. \"What's the use of being beastly\nill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think\nthere's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course\ncheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play\nwhen he knows he can't pay; but I don't know that it's worse than\ngetting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody\nas Grasslough does,--or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl\nmerely because she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses,\nbut I don't believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible,\nCarbury?\"\n\n\"Read the Bible! Well;--yes;--no;--that is, I suppose, I used to do.\"\n\n\"I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone and\npitch it at that woman. Live and let live;--that's my motto.\"\n\n\"But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?\"\nsaid Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be\ncarried too far.\n\n\"Oh, certainly. I'll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but\nthen he ought to let me live too. Only, who's to bell the cat?\"\n\n\"What cat?\"\n\n\"It's no good our going to old Grendall,\" said Lord Nidderdale, who\nhad some understanding in the matter, \"nor yet to young Grendall. The\none would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every\nlie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our\ngreat master, Augustus Melmotte.\"\n\nThis little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's return\nfrom Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great\nduty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his marriage\nwith Marie Melmotte. In doing that he would have to put one bell on\nthe cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. In\nhis heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte. But then, as he knew\nvery well, Nidderdale was intent on the same object. Nidderdale, he\nthought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible, and\nthe forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to\nthe marrying of heiresses very queer indeed. He knew that Nidderdale\nwanted to marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that he\nwanted to marry her. And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk\nabout it! And now the man asked who should bell the cat! \"You go\nthere oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best,\" said Sir\nFelix.\n\n\"Go where?\"\n\n\"To the Board.\"\n\n\"But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me, perhaps,\nbecause I'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think I was\nthe bigger fool of the two.\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"I ain't afraid of him, if you mean that,\" continued Lord Nidderdale.\n\"He's a wretched old reprobate, and I don't doubt but he'd skin you\nand me if he could make money off our carcasses. But as he can't skin\nme, I'll have a shy at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me,\nbecause I've always been on the square with him. If it depended on\nhim, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Would you?\" Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend's\nassertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement.\n\n\"But then she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want her.\nWhere the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't all\nthere?\" Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a\ndeep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which\nhis lordship had suggested. Where the--mischief would he, Sir Felix\nCarbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the\nmoney was not all there?\n\nOn the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went to\nthe great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that he\nwalked with the great man to the Board meeting. Melmotte was always\nvery gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never, up\nto this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about\nbusiness. \"I wanted just to ask you something,\" said the lord,\nhanging on the chairman's arm.\n\n\"Anything you please, my lord.\"\n\n\"Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to\nsell?\"\n\n\"No, I don't,--if you ask me.\"\n\n\"Oh;--I didn't know. But why shouldn't we as well as the others?\"\n\n\"Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?\"\n\n\"Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have. How much has\nLord Alfred put into it?\"\n\n\"_I_ have taken shares for Lord Alfred,\" said Melmotte, putting very\nheavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. \"If it suits me to advance\nmoney to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without asking\nyour lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly. I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with\nyour money.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about\nit. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come\nall right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put\nthem into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the\nshares are up, can sell at a profit. It's presumed just at present\nthat, at some early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by\ndoing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but\ncannot be transferred to you.\"\n\n\"That's it, is it,\" said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand\nall about it.\n\n\"If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you can\nhave pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, if\nyour father consents to a proper settlement.\"\n\n\"I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure,\" said Nidderdale. \"Thank you;\nI'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all to Carbury.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\"YES;--I'M A BARONET.\"\n\n\nHow eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form to\nMarie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood.\n\"My dear Felix,\" she said, standing over his bedside a little before\nnoon, \"pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may\nbe between the cup and the lip.\"\n\n\"It's everything to get him in a good humour,\" pleaded Sir Felix.\n\n\"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used.\"\n\n\"There's no fear of that; she's all right. What am I to say to him\nabout money? That's the question.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix.\"\n\n\"Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum\ndown; or his father did for him. So much cash was to be paid over\nbefore the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale wanted\nthe money to do what he liked with.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't mind having it settled?\"\n\n\"No;--I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid\ndown, and the income insured to me,--say £7,000 or £8,000 a year.\nI wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while.\"\n\n\"But you have nothing left of your own.\"\n\n\"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow\nout,\" said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be\nefficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might\nhave been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or\nblow out his own brains.\n\n\"Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way.\"\n\n\"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You\nwant me to marry this girl because of her money.\"\n\n\"You want to marry her yourself.\"\n\n\"I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one\nwants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one\nmeans to take,--and whether one is sure to get it.\"\n\n\"I don't think there can be any doubt.\"\n\n\"If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be\nvery like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses,\nhe can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for\nan heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little\nhampered you know.\"\n\n\"Of course he'd pay the money first.\"\n\n\"It's very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be\nrather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been\narranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever,\nthat he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had\nbeen paid or not. You can't carry £10,000 a year about in your\npocket, you know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of\ngetting up.\"\n\nLady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side\nin her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor\nSquare, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses,\nthe general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity\nof the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute\npennilessness of her baronet-son. As he was, his condition was\nhopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments\nof such a man as Lord Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the\nfamily estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but\nthere was nothing coming to Felix in the future. All the goods he\nwould ever have of his own, he had now;--position, a title, and a\nhandsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something! Even the\nruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square\nwould be better than the baronet's present condition. And then,\nthough it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day,\nthere could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be\nprobable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his\ndaughter's position? She visited her son again on the next morning,\nwhich was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. \"I\nthink you should be content to run a little risk,\" she said.\n\nSir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken,\nperhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in\na humour to resent interference. \"I wish you'd leave me alone,\" he\nsaid, \"to manage my own business.\"\n\n\"Is it not my business too?\"\n\n\"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I\nshall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to\nmeddle with me.\"\n\n\"You ungrateful boy!\"\n\n\"I understand all about that. Of course I'm ungrateful when I don't\ndo everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only\nset me against it all.\"\n\n\"How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on\nme and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger\nis right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own\nwretchedness.\"\n\n\"That's what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow\nof that sort.\"\n\n\"He is the best friend I have.\" What would Roger have thought had he\nheard this assertion from Lady Carbury?\n\n\"He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he\nmeddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him.\nUpon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't\nvery pleasant. Of course it's your house; but if you do allow me a\nroom, I think you might let me have it to myself.\" It was impossible\nfor Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to\nexplain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she\never find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he\nescaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till\nsome unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever\nallowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed\nof her young, but she felt that she should have something back for\nher blood,--some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all\nas long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of\nthe mother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her\nmoments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet\nshe knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe.\nShe almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love,--but\nshe acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with\nhim. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to\nherself, his wickedness and ruinous indifference to the future, she\nmust cling to him to the last. All that she had done, and all that\nshe had borne,--all that she was doing and bearing,--was it not for\nhis sake?\n\nSir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square since his return from Carbury,\nand had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but he had seen them\ntogether, and not a word had been said about the engagement. He could\nnot make much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was\nusual with her; but then she was never very gracious. She had told\nhim that Miss Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore,\nas the young lady was \"fatigante.\" Upon this Marie had declared that\nshe intended to like the young lady very much. \"Pooh!\" said Madame\nMelmotte. \"You never like no person at all.\" At this Marie had looked\nover to her lover and smiled. \"Ah, yes; that is all very well,--while\nit lasts; but you care for no friend.\" From which Felix had judged\nthat Madame Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not\nabsolutely disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note\nat his club from Marie. \"Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will\nfind papa after lunch.\" This was in his possession when his mother\nvisited him in his bedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest.\nBut he would not tell her of his intention, because he had drunk too\nmuch wine, and was sulky.\n\nAt about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor Square\nand asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking,--even\nafter he had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the\ndoor,--he intended to ask for Mr. Melmotte; but at the last his\ncourage failed him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. There\nhe found Madame Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana Longestaffe, and--Lord\nNidderdale. Marie looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he\nhad already been with her father. He slid into a chair close to\nMadame Melmotte, and endeavoured to seem at his ease. Lord Nidderdale\ncontinued his flirtation with Miss Longestaffe,--a flirtation which\nshe carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess\nor the young lady of the house. \"We know what brings you here,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"I came on purpose to see you.\"\n\n\"I'm sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here.\"\n\n\"Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose. It's a\ngreat institution; isn't it?\"\n\n\"It's an institution you mean to belong to,--permanently.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they\ntalk of going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn't pass. That\nfellow there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here, because\nyou're here. I don't think you'll like it a bit, you know.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\nAfter a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one\nof the windows for a few seconds. \"Papa is down-stairs in the\nbook-room,\" she said. \"Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was\nout.\" It was evident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for\nhim. \"You go down,\" she continued, \"and ask the man to show you into\nthe book-room.\"\n\n\"Shall I come up again?\"\n\n\"No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame Didon.\" Now\nSir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that Madame\nDidon was Madame Melmotte's own woman, commonly called Didon by the\nladies of the family. \"Or send it by post,--under cover to her. That\nwill be better. Go at once, now.\" It certainly did seem to Sir Felix\nthat the very nature of the girl was altered. But he went, just\nshaking hands with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.\n\nIn a few moments he found himself with Mr. Melmotte in the chamber\nwhich had been dignified with the name of the book-room. The great\nfinancier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here,\ngenerally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall. It may be\nsupposed that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices\nof money and funds for the New York, Paris, and London Exchanges. But\non this occasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have\nbeen enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. \"How do you do, Sir Felix?\"\nhe said. \"I suppose you want the ladies.\"\n\n\"I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on you\nas I came down.\" It immediately occurred to Melmotte that the baronet\nhad come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at\nonce resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. He\nbelieved that he should thrive best by resenting any interference\nwith him in his capacity as financier. He thought that he had risen\nhigh enough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him\nthat men who were themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed\nby a savage assumption of superiority. And he, too, had generally the\nadvantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was\nconcerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it. He\ncould thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his\ncolleagues. When neither of these sufficed to give him undisputed\nmastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. He liked\nyoung associates because they were more timid and less greedy than\ntheir elders. Lord Nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at\nrest, and Mr. Melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir\nFelix. Lord Alfred he had been obliged to buy.\n\n\"I'm very glad to see you, and all that,\" said Melmotte, assuming a\ncertain exaltation of the eyebrows, which they who had many dealings\nwith him often found to be very disagreeable; \"but this is hardly a\nday for business, Sir Felix, nor,--yet a place for business.\"\n\nSir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden. He certainly had come\nabout business,--business of a particular sort; but Marie had told\nhim that of all days Sunday would be the best, and had also told him\nthat her father was more likely to be in a good humour on Sunday than\non any other day. Sir Felix felt that he had not been received with\ngood humour. \"I didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Melmotte,\" he said.\n\n\"I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been\ngoing to speak about that railway.\"\n\n\"Oh dear no.\"\n\n\"Your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you\nattended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend\nto.\"\n\n\"My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it,\" said Sir\nFelix.\n\n\"Women never do. Well;--what can I do for you, now that you are\nhere?\"\n\n\"Mr. Melmotte, I'm come,--I'm come to;--in short, Mr. Melmotte, I\nwant to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand.\"\n\n\"The d---- you do!\"\n\n\"Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent.\"\n\n\"She knows you're coming then?\"\n\n\"Yes;--she knows.\"\n\n\"And my wife;--does she know?\"\n\n\"I've never spoken to her about it. Perhaps Miss Melmotte has.\"\n\n\"And how long have you and she understood each other?\"\n\n\"I've been attached to her ever since I saw her,\" said Sir Felix. \"I\nhave indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind of\nthing goes on.\"\n\n\"I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that when\nlarge sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man\nshould speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool\nif he don't, if he wants to get the father's money. So she has given\nyou a promise?\"\n\n\"I don't know about a promise.\"\n\n\"Do you consider that she's engaged to you?\"\n\n\"Not if she's disposed to get out of it,\" said Sir Felix, hoping\nthat he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. \"Of course, I\nshould be awfully disappointed.\"\n\n\"She has consented to your coming to me?\"\n\n\"Well, yes;--in a sort of a way. Of course she knows that it all\ndepends on you.\"\n\n\"Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you, she can marry\nyou. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet,\nI believe?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I'm a baronet.\"\n\n\"And therefore you've come to your own property. You haven't to wait\nfor your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent about\nmoney.\"\n\nThis was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound\nto dispel, even at the risk of offending the father. \"Not exactly\nthat,\" he said. \"I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If my\ndaughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. How\nmuch is neither here nor there. If she marries to please herself,\nwithout considering me, I shan't give her a farthing.\"\n\n\"I had hoped that you might consent, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I've said nothing about that. It is possible. You're a man of\nfashion and have a title of your own,--and no doubt a property. If\nyou'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think\nabout it at any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix?\"\n\nWhat could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six, matter\nto a man like Melmotte? It was thus that Sir Felix looked at it. When\na man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questions\nabout trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked, and\nthe asking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of\na proposed father-in-law. At any rate, it must be answered. For a\nmoment it occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the\ntruth. It would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing\nto come after. Were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower\nand lower into the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end\nof all his hopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all\nhis misery. But he lacked the necessary courage. \"It isn't a large\nproperty, you know,\" he said.\n\n\"Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose,\" said the horrid,\nbig, rich scoundrel.\n\n\"No;--not quite like that,\" said Sir Felix, with a sickly laugh.\n\n\"But you have got enough to support a baronet's title?\"\n\n\"That depends on how you want to support it,\" said Sir Felix, putting\noff the evil day.\n\n\"Where's your family seat?\"\n\n\"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old\nfamily place.\"\n\n\"That doesn't belong to you,\" said Melmotte, very sharply.\n\n\"No; not yet. But I'm the heir.\"\n\nPerhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than another\nto be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the\nsystem under which titles and property descend together, or in\nvarious lines. The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is complex, and\nso is the business of Parliament. But the rules regulating them,\nthough anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed\nanomalies of the peerage and primogeniture. They who are brought up\namong it, learn it as children do a language, but strangers who begin\nthe study in advanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. It\nwas everything to Melmotte that he should understand the ways of the\ncountry which he had adopted; and when he did not understand, he was\nclever at hiding his ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir\nFelix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the\nfamily. He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury, and\nhe judged by the name it must be an old family property. And now\nthe baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an\nEsquire. \"Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you?\nYou're the head of the family?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course,\" said Sir Felix, lying\ndirectly. \"But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a\nlong time to explain it all.\"\n\n\"He's a young man, isn't he?\"\n\n\"No,--not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old.\"\n\n\"If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?\"\n\nSir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth\nwith discretion. \"I don't quite know how it would be. I have always\nunderstood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will\nmarry.\"\n\n\"And in the meantime what is your own property?\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"In the meantime what is your own property?\"]\n\n\n\"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then\nI am my mother's heir.\"\n\n\"You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the\nincome on which you intend to support your establishment as a married\nman? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on\nmy part.\" The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly\ntaking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth.\nIt was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not a\nbaronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of\nthe world who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge\nof speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more\nthan that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking\ndisgusting questions such as these,--questions which it was quite\nimpossible that a gentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently\nplain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such\na man as Melmotte, must do so under the stress of pecuniary\nembarrassment? Would it not be an understood bargain that as he\nprovided the rank and position, she would provide the money? And yet\nthe vulgar wretch took advantage of his assumed authority to ask\nthese dreadful questions! Sir Felix stood silent, trying to look the\nman in the face, but failing;--wishing that he was well out of the\nhouse, and at the Beargarden. \"You don't seem to be very clear about\nyour own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer\nto write to me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that will be best,\" said the lover.\n\n\"Either that, or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will have\nmoney; but money expects money.\" At this moment Lord Alfred entered\nthe room. \"You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as\nyou said you would?\"\n\n\"I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out.\"\n\n\"I haven't been out of this room all day,--except to lunch. Good\nmorning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little\nsoda and brandy.\" Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with\nhis fellow Director, Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting\nMelmotte to shake hands with him before he went. \"Do you know\nanything about that young fellow?\" Melmotte asked as soon as the door\nwas closed.\n\n\"He's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leave\nit,\" said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler.\n\n\"Without a shilling! I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in\nSuffolk;--eh?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr.\nCarbury has a small property there, and he might give it to me\nto-morrow. I wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young\nfellow has nothing to do with it whatever.\"\n\n\"Hasn't he now?\" Mr. Melmotte as he speculated upon it, almost\nadmired the young man's impudence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nMILES GRENDALL'S TRIUMPH.\n\n\nSir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been\ncheckmated,--and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence\nof the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far\nas he could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie\nMelmotte. The father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly\nbelieved the truth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not\ndoubt but that she'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with\nhim, which was natural; and was a fool,--which was perhaps also\nnatural. But romance was not the game which he was playing. People\ntold him that when girls succeeded in marrying without their parents'\nconsent, fathers were always constrained to forgive them at last.\nThat might be the case with ordinary fathers. But Melmotte was\ndecidedly not an ordinary father. He was,--so Sir Felix declared to\nhimself,--perhaps the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix could\nnot but remember that elevation of the eyebrows, and the brazen\nforehead, and the hard mouth. He had found himself quite unable to\nstand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed and swore at the man as\nhe was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.\n\nBut what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether,\nnever go to Grosvenor Square again, and drop the whole family,\nincluding the Great Mexican Railway? Then an idea occurred to him.\nNidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for\nshares. \"You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any.\nThere seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my\ngovernor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to get\nthe money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference.\" On that\nSunday afternoon Sir Felix thought over all this. \"Why shouldn't he\n'go a thou,' and get the difference?\" He made a mental calculation.\n£12 10_s._ per £100! £125 for a thousand! and all paid in ready\nmoney. As far as Sir Felix could understand, directly the one\noperation had been perfected the thousand pounds would be available\nfor another. As he looked into it with all his intelligence he\nthought that he began to perceive that that was the way in which the\nMelmottes of the world made their money. There was but one objection.\nHe had not got the entire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the\nwhole very good to him. He had more than the half of it in real\nmoney, lying at a bank in the city at which he had opened an account.\nAnd he had very much more than the remainder in I. O. U.'s from\nDolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall. In fact if every man had his\nown,--and his bosom glowed with indignation as he reflected on the\ninjustice with which he was kept out of his own,--he could go into\nthe city and take up his shares to-morrow, and still have ready money\nat his command. If he could do this, would not such conduct on his\npart be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune\nwhich Melmotte had brought against him? He would endeavour to work\nthe money out of Dolly Longestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that\nthough it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he\nmight use his claim against Miles in the city. Miles was Secretary to\nthe Board, and might perhaps contrive that the money required for the\nshares should not be all ready money. Sir Felix was not very clear\nabout it, but thought that he might possibly in this way use the\nindebtedness of Miles Grendall. \"How I do hate a fellow who does not\npay up,\" he said to himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for\nsome friend to come in. And he formed in his head Draconic laws which\nhe would fain have executed upon men who lost money at play and did\nnot pay. \"How the deuce fellows can look one in the face, is what I\ncan't understand,\" he said to himself.\n\nHe thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to Melmotte\nas a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit.\nSo he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte in accordance with her\ninstructions.\n\n\n   DEAR M.,\n\n   Your father cut up very rough,--about money. Perhaps you\n   had better see him yourself; or would your mother?\n\n   Yours always,\n\n   F.\n\n\nThis, as directed, he put under cover to Madame Didon,--Grosvenor\nSquare, and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in the\nletter which could commit him.\n\nThere was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight\no'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and would always gamble\nafterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about\nseven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the opportunity\na good one to speak of his money. \"You couldn't cash your I. O. U.'s\nfor me to-morrow;--could you?\"\n\n\"To-morrow! oh, lord!\"\n\n\"I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we\nare really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's.\"\n\n\"I'm told you're to have her.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in you\nknow for that Board in the city.\"\n\n\"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Montague's\nfriend, that was here one night and won all our money.\"\n\n\"The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to\nCalifornia. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always\nwondered whether he got there alive.\"\n\n\"Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those\nkinds of things.\"\n\n\"And because I am such a fool.\"\n\n\"I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. But\nit's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the\ncity to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay\nfor them, and old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if\nI don't. Indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me\nand this girl of his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how\nimportant it may be?\"\n\n\"It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought\nI was sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you?\"\n\n\"Not in the least.\"\n\n\"It's about eleven hundred pounds!\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder.\"\n\n\"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale\nwhen they lose always pay with Miles's I. O. U.'s.\"\n\n\"So should I, if I had them.\"\n\n\"It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going,\nand they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use of\nplaying when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendall\nhimself, he has no feeling about it.\"\n\n\"Not the least, I should say.\"\n\n\"You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?\"\n\n\"Melmotte has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sell\nsomething. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. You\nmay tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've\nproposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know\nany other way.\"\n\n\"You could write me that,--in a business sort of way.\"\n\n\"I couldn't do that, Carbury. What's the use? I never write any\nletters. I can't do it. You tell him that; and if the sale comes off,\nI'll make it straight.\"\n\nMiles Grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in the\nsmoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the\nSecretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing\nthat the man must have some influence with the great distributor of\nshares. \"I'm going to take up my shares in that company,\" said Sir\nFelix.\n\n\"Ah;--indeed.\" And Miles enveloped himself from head to foot in\nsmoke.\n\n\"I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte and\nhe has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand\non Wednesday.\"\n\n\"Oh;--ah.\"\n\n\"It will be the proper thing to do;--won't it?\"\n\n\"Very good--thing to do!\" Miles Grendall smoked harder and harder as\nthe suggestions were made to him.\n\n\"Is it always ready money?\"\n\n\"Always ready money,\" said Miles shaking his head, as though in\nreprobation of so abominable an institution.\n\n\"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit,\nsay 50 per cent., is made for the shares?\"\n\n\"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same\nthing.\"\n\nSir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he\nwould, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. \"You know\nI should want to sell again,--for the rise.\"\n\n\"Oh; you'll want to sell again.\"\n\n\"And therefore I must have the full number.\"\n\n\"You could sell half the number, you know,\" said Miles.\n\n\"I'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's £1,000. Well;--I\nhave got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't\nyou manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent.\ndown?\"\n\n\"Melmotte does all that himself.\"\n\n\"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own\npayments to me.\" This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicate\nmode of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.\n\n\"That's private,\" said Miles frowning.\n\n\"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could\nbuy the shares with it, though they are public.\"\n\n\"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury.\"\n\n\"You can't help me?\"\n\n\"Not in that way.\"\n\n\"Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?\" Sir Felix was\ndriven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of\nhis debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who\ndid not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet\nhad the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with\naffairs of business! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles\nGrendall smoked on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the\nquestion, and he therefore made no answer. \"Do you know how much you\nowe me?\" continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had\ncommenced the attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the\nroom, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in\nan under-tone. These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a\nwhisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in\nanger.\n\n\"Of course I know,\" said Miles.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I'm not going to talk about it here.\"\n\n\"Not going to talk about it here?\"\n\n\"No. This is a public room.\"\n\n\"I am going to talk about it,\" said Sir Felix, raising his voice.\n\n\"Will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?\" said\nMiles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of\nthe room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a\nmoment Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the\nwhole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a\nmore popular man than himself.\n\nIt was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in\nthe card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with\nhim the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and,\nI regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague.\nSir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party.\nWhat was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent\nto be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not\nplay with him, where should he find another gambling table? They\nbegan with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to\nloo. The least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and\nyet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that\nthey gave up the nobler game. \"Let's stick to whist; I like cutting\nout,\" said Grasslough. \"It's much more jolly having nothing to do now\nand then; one can always bet,\" said Dolly shortly afterwards. \"I hate\nloo,\" said Sir Felix in answer to a third application. \"I like whist\nbest,\" said Nidderdale, \"but I'll play anything anybody likes;--pitch\nand toss if you please.\" But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was\nthe game.\n\nAt about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had not\nbeen very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a\nlarge pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The\nmen opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had\nhitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own\npaper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a\npang. Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only\nman there not so furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were\nquite small he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was\nfrightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under\nno circumstances could it be got back from him. \"Montague,\" he said,\n\"just change these for the time. I'll take them back, if you still\nhave them when we've done.\" And he handed a lot of Miles's paper\nacross the table. The result of course would be that Felix would\nreceive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his\nown worthless paper. To Montague it would make no difference, and he\ndid as he was asked;--or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles\ninterfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between\nhim and another man? \"I don't understand this kind of thing,\" he\nsaid. \"When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my I. O. U.'s, as long\nas you have any.\"\n\n\"By George, that's kind.\"\n\n\"But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed.\"\n\n\"Pay them yourself, then,\" said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on\nthe table.\n\n\"Don't let's have a row,\" said Lord Nidderdale.\n\n\"Carbury is always making a row,\" said Grasslough.\n\n\"Of course he is,\" said Miles Grendall.\n\n\"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we\nhave such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get\ncash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk\noff with it.\"\n\n\"Who is walking off?\" said Miles.\n\n\"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of\nus?\" asked Grasslough.\n\nThe matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be\nallowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in\nthe manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr. Grendall\npledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply\nany money that he might have won to the redemption of his I. O. U.'s,\npaying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision\nmade Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or\nseven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial\naccuracy,--which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and\nhe felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off\nwith the ready money.\n\nFor a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in\nhis play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing\na minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall,\nand he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair\nfarther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe,\nwho was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour,\nduring which Grendall still won,--and won heavily from Paul Montague.\n\"I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life,\" said\nGrasslough. \"You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost\nsince we began!\"\n\n\"Ever so many hands I haven't played at all,\" said Miles.\n\n\"You've always won when I've played,\" said Dolly. \"I've been looed\nevery time.\"\n\n\"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost\nso much,\" said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper\ncounters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above\n£1,000, and had also,--which was of infinitely greater concern to\nhim,--received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to\nhim.\n\n\"What's the good of talking about it?\" said Nidderdale. \"I hate all\nthis row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed.\" The\nidea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however,\nhardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall\nwithout seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw\na card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that\nthe winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was\ntempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his\nperson. But he feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be\nif there should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there\nwould certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men\naround him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation.\nGrasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly\nLongestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one\nof their own set of cheating them. He feared both the violence of\nthe man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the\nothers. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw\nthe card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him\nthat others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round,\nthe man did it. Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in\neach round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that\nnothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and\nwent away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand\npounds, but it had been all in paper. \"There's something the matter\nwith that fellow,\" said Grasslough.\n\n\"There's always something the matter with him, I think,\" said Miles.\n\"He is so awfully greedy about his money.\" Miles had become somewhat\ntriumphant in his success.\n\n\"The less said about that, Grendall, the better,\" said Nidderdale.\n\"We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with\nas much as anybody.\" Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing\nwithout manoeuvring a card on that hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nIN GROSVENOR SQUARE.\n\n\nMarie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received\nfrom Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of French\neloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house\nif either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie\ntold her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. \"Well,\nperhaps not Madame,\" said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to\nbe dismissed; \"but Monsieur!\" Marie declared that by no possibility\ncould Monsieur know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told\nanything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against\nwhom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing\nguns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for\na master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew\nhow he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of\ncourse his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her\nwithout money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew\nhimself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl,\nand then bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him.\nHis daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the\nfather-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose\nwithout such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's\naid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had\nwhispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of\nhis money, he himself might be made a baronet. \"But if they should\nsay that I'm not an Englishman?\" suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had\nexplained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in\nEngland, or even that he should have an English name. No questions\nwould be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend\na little money on the proper side,--by which Lord Alfred meant the\nConservative side,--and be munificent in his entertainments, and the\nbaronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no\nknowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by\nmoney scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmotte\nwould speak of his money and power of making money as though they\nwere unlimited,--and Lord Alfred believed him.\n\nMarie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her\nfather as \"cutting up very rough.\" To her who had known her father\nall her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of\nlove in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through\nDidon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving,\nand she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to\naccept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this\nshe had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the\nmarvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she\nceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became\nconscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced\nin great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing\nfamiliarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She\nwas no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of\nany awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge\nherself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting\naway even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it\nwas now when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have\nloved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and\nwho, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace\ninto his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He,\nfinding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she, child\nthough she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London\nhad changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in\nlove with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties\nthere might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would\nrun away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its\nworship. But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood,\nand not of wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as\nshe sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not\nknow Didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust\nhis raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and\nhaving no such fear, she could write warmly.\n\n\n   --, Grosvenor Square.\n   Early Monday Morning.\n\n   DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,\n\n   I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa\n   would talk about money because he never thinks of anything\n   else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't\n   care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got\n   plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once\n   married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of\n   everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so\n   than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always\n   get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But\n   I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that\n   on my word and honour I will never marry any one except\n   you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll\n   bear it,--for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I\n   know.\n\n   You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if\n   you would call some day and give her something, it would\n   help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me\n   that you love me. I love you better than anything in the\n   world, and I will never,--never give you up. I suppose you\n   can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall\n   not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I\n   can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out\n   yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't\n   seen him since you were here. I never see him before\n   he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going\n   down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss\n   Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so\n   at Caversham?\n\n   Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,\n\n   And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,\n\n   MARIE.\n\n\nSir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of\nthe Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if\nthere were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on\nwith it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure.\n\"What an infernal little ass!\" he said to himself as he crumpled the\nletter up.\n\nMarie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little\npresent of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was\nthe first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when\nshe found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of\nthe house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her\nown room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she\nhad to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to\nthose parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London\nseason was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to\nthe companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very\nmuch apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often.\nMadame Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to\nunderstand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.\n\nBut Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances\nwere changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear\nfriend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex,\nand whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid\npreferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time\nof her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent\nto return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped\nher friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been\nvery affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble.\nGeorgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms\nwere people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! She\nwould do anything rather than lose the Monograms. But it was of no\nuse. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even\nanswered her note. \"She never really cared for anybody but herself,\"\nGeorgiana said in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found\nthat Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed.\nShe was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient\naccuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and\nNidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must\nmarry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke\nwhen he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She could see it\nin the faces of people as they greeted her in the park,--especially\nin the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a\ncertain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All that\nwas now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet\nbut a few days old she understood that others understood that she had\ndegraded herself. \"What's all this about?\" Lord Grasslough had said\nto her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had\nsimpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.\n\"Impudent scoundrel!\" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight\nago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.\n\nA day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of\ncommemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must\nhave been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such\nuncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after\nnoon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He\ndeclared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame\nMelmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He\nwas therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him.\n\"What's all this about?\"\n\nShe tried to laugh as she tossed her head. \"What brings you here, I\nwonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment.\"\n\n\"My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much\nharm. Why are you staying with these people?\"\n\n\"Ask papa.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he sent you here?\"\n\n\"That's just what he did do.\"\n\n\"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because\nthey are none of them coming up?\"\n\n\"Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for\nguessing!\"\n\n\"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?\"\n\n\"No;--not a bit.\"\n\n\"Then I feel ashamed for you.\"\n\n\"Everybody comes here.\"\n\n\"No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing.\nEverybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard\nof nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I think as much of myself as ever I did,\" said Georgiana, hardly\nable to restrain her tears.\n\n\"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain\nhere. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me.\"\n\n\"What did he say, Dolly?\"\n\n\"He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And\nof course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people\nyourself is what I can't understand!\"\n\n\"I don't like them,--I hate them.\"\n\n\"Then why do you come and live with them?\"\n\n\"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so\ndifferent. You can go just where you please, and do what you like.\nAnd if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you\ncan live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like\nto be shut up down at Caversham all the season?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor.\"\n\n\"You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you.\nWhat is to become of me?\"\n\n\"You mean about marrying?\"\n\n\"I mean altogether,\" said the poor girl, unable to be quite as\nexplicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and\nmother, and sister. \"Of course I have to think of myself.\"\n\n\"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the\nshort of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere,\nbut when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to\nthe governor, and tell him too. He should have known better.\"\n\n\"Don't write to papa, Dolly!\"\n\n\"Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil\nwithout saying a word. Good-bye.\"\n\nAs soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was\nopen,--not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden\nhours,--and actually did write a letter to his father.\n\n\n   MY DEAR FATHER,\n\n   I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte's house. She\n   ought not to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but\n   everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family\n   I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that\n   Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this\n   time of the year.\n\n   Your affectionate son,\n\n   ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.\n\n\nThis letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a\nthunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have\nbeen instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad\nindeed,--worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not\nhave brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered\nhim most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his\nfamily back to town. This had come from his son, who had refused to\ndo anything to help him in his difficulties.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nMRS. HURTLE.\n\n\nPaul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville\nStreet, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had\nmany troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and\nMontague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the\nreader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed\nhis mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would\nventure to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed.\nHenrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her\ncousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he\ndisliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy\nruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own\nconscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just\nat this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which\nhad been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in\nPiccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington.\nHere he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as\nmen live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs.\nHurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the\ndrawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of\nan hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and\nthen Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom\nhe had once promised to marry. \"Paul,\" she said, with a quick,\nsharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she\npleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, \"Paul, say that that\nletter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I\nwill forgive everything.\"\n\n\"I cannot say that,\" he replied, laying his hand in hers.\n\n\"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that\nyour promises to me are to go for nothing?\"\n\n\"Things are changed,\" said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her\nbidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly,\nbut the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that\nhe had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but\nthe justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he\nhardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life\nwhich, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present\ndifficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion;\nand her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his\nsympathies.\n\n\"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that.\" As\nshe said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether\nshe was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this\nman's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we\nseldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines\nof a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the\nexpression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding\nand false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost\nany dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female,\nhairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are\nconstructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion,\nsometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled\nnegligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the\nsculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which\nwe used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given\nplace to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtle\nwas not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark,--a\ndark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be\nsoft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black,\nhung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and\nlips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a\nvarying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her\nnose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless\nit was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect.\nHer mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was\nfull, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was\nbeginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped;\nbut she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any\nrate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen\nher, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk\nor woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice,\nalways well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was\ncertainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as\nthough she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman\nought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She\nwas in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as\nthirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.\n\n\"You are beautiful as ever you were,\" he said.\n\n\"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it\ncan bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means.\"\nThen she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair\nwhich she gave him.\n\n\"I told you in my letter.\"\n\n\"You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off.\nWhy is it to be--off? Do you not love me?\" Then she threw herself\nupon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face.\n\"Paul,\" she said, \"I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose\nto see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one\nkiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss.\" Of\ncourse he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How\ncould it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she\nwould have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what\ncould he do but embrace her? \"Now tell me everything,\" she said,\nseating herself on a footstool at his feet.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"I have come across the Atlantic to see you.\"]\n\n\nShe certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat\nor scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her\ncaresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him\nbefore he left her. He had known something of her temper before,\nthough he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had\ntravelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been\nvery good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for\nhe had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at\nLiverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his\naffairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before\nhis second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown\nto him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but\nthat she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on\nbusiness. When he left her at the London railway station, from which\nshe started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had\noffered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he\nremembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his\nengagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to\nwhom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he\ndid not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself,\nand that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family.\nShe had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest\nmiscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as\nthe one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But\nit was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only\nwhen he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger\nCarbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's\ncleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that\nhe had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing\nintimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been\nmissing.\n\nHe had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it\nwas impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a\nrailway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all\nhe could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially\nsucceeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should\nenjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so\nnatural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that\nshe may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that\nmoment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he\nhas parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to his\nwidow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he\nsaid ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learned\nthrough the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San\nFrancisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not\nquite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that\nthere certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of their\nbelief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was,\nthat she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had\nnot been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the\ncircumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very\nclever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was\nvery dangerous. \"She always had money when she was here,\" Hamilton\nFisker said, \"but no one knew where it came from.\" Then he wanted to\nknow why Paul inquired. \"I don't think, you know, that I should like\nto go in for a life partnership, if you mean that,\" said Hamilton K.\nFisker.\n\nMontague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second\njourney to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite\nof his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he\ncould make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader\nwill remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had\npromised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day.\nShe had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate\nbefore he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England,\nand these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to\nexplain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had\nfollowed him to London! \"Tell me everything,\" she said, leaning upon\nhim and looking up into his face.\n\n\"But you,--when did you arrive here?\"\n\n\"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday\nI reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London,\nand so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that\nyou should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so\nlong ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would\nnot tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment\nI was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of\nrobbers.\" As she said this, she looked as though she could be very\npersistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her\nown. \"I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and\nwhen I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And\nnow I am here. I at any rate have been faithful.\" As she said this\nhis arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his\nknee. \"And now,\" she said, \"tell me about yourself?\"\n\nHis position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done\nhis duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have\nsprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have\nbeen his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her\nunderstand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was\neither too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as\nthat. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she\nsat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his\nwife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did\nnot at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet\nwith properly apologetic courtesy. \"I am engaged here about this\nrailway,\" he said. \"You have heard, I suppose, of our projected\nscheme?\"\n\n\"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the\ngreat man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying\na villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the\nbest of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are\nvery hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did.\"\n\n\"It's doing very well, I believe,\" said Paul, with some feeling of\nshame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.\n\n\"You are the manager here in England?\"\n\n\"No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; but\nthe real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he\nnot? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of\ncourse?\"\n\n\"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week.\"\n\n\"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or\nlords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right\nhand. What power;--what grandeur!\"\n\n\"Grand enough,\" said Paul, \"if it all came honestly.\"\n\n\"Such a man rises above honesty,\" said Mrs. Hurtle, \"as a great\ngeneral rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer\na nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A\npigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the\nrivers.\"\n\n\"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches,\" said Montague.\n\n\"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this,\nthat commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live\nin plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to\nnine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his\npen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here\nthat he is not honest?\"\n\n\"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing\nagainst him.\"\n\n\"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon\nwas a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I\nshall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would\nnot condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your\nEmperors.\"\n\n\"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay.\"\n\n\"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of\nyours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that\ncommandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back\nthe grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they\nfilch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is\ndear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he\nrecognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good,\nand that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger\nand the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins\ninside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets.\"\n\nMontague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connected\nwith the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a\nscoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty,\nand there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it\nwas shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. \"Personally, I\ndo not like him,\" said Paul.\n\n\"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove.\"\n\n\"Oh no.\"\n\n\"But you are prospering in this business?\"\n\n\"Yes,--I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous\nthings in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous\ntill he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I\nhad no alternative.\"\n\n\"It seems to me to have been a golden chance.\"\n\n\"As far as immediate results go it has been golden.\"\n\n\"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now,--now that we have got back\ninto our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have\ntalked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our\nengagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?\"\n\nHe would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited\nfor an answer. \"You know I did,\" he said.\n\n\"I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my\nlove to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you\ndoubt me?\"\n\nHe did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. \"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl\nfrom a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me!\nYou owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have\nnever lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not\ntaken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give.\" Then she\nleaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. \"If you hate\nme, say so.\"\n\n\"Winifrid,\" he said, calling her by her name.\n\n\"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you\nPaul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there\nanother woman that you love?\"\n\nAt this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no\ncoward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous\nshe could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call\nintending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. \"There is\nanother,\" he said.\n\nShe stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would\ncommence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standing\nquite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the\nleft. \"Oh,\" she said, in a whisper;--\"that is the reason why I am\ntold that I am to be--off.\"\n\n\"That was not the reason.\"\n\n\"What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that?\nUnless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so\nalso you have learned to--hate me.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, Winifrid.\"\n\n\"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that\nit was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you\nlove--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too\nlittle like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other\nreasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that\nthey are lies.\"\n\nThe reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by\nRoger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little\nabout Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.\nHis reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. \"We know\ntoo little of each other,\" he said.\n\n\"What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking.\nDid I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your\naffairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that\nyou want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my\nmoney? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none.\nNow I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What\nmore? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will\ndeluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved\nwould not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved\nonce.\"\n\nHe knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have\nbeen better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have\nremained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must\nhave acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and\nvery base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is\ndamnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the\nsufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and\nmight have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath\ncould inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no\nfurther mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he\nwas all at sea. \"I wish to hear nothing,\" he said.\n\n\"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely,\nis a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to\nher. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together?\nThink of it, Paul. Is not that mean?\"\n\n\"I do not think that I am mean.\"\n\n\"No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--this\nlady?\"\n\nHe knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning\nHetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and\ncertainly had received no assurance that he was loved. \"I can not\nname her.\"\n\n\"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return\nsatisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections?\nThat is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind,\nand leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake\nhands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?\"\n\n\"I did not say so.\"\n\n\"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus\nMelmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?\"\n\n\"I hope not.\"\n\n\"Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir.\"\n\n\"I did say so.\"\n\n\"Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me.\"\n\n\"I cannot marry you.\"\n\n\"Then, sir, are you not a liar?\" It would have taken him long to\nexplain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a\npromise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his\nengagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could\nnot accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought\nto his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and\nas to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurtle were alive,\ncertainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs.\nHurtle. He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once\nready with his defence. \"Oh, Paul,\" she said, changing at once into\nsoftness,--\"I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make\nyou feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to\nthis lady also?\"\n\n\"No,\" said he. \"I have given no promise.\"\n\n\"But she loves you?\"\n\n\"She has never said so.\"\n\n\"You have told her of your love?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against\nme,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint,\nwho, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?\"\n\n\"I suppose it is,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any\nwoman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have done\nin coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless\nyou are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am\nengaged to marry you.\"\n\n\"You have told the woman of the house?\"\n\n\"Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me?\nAm I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps\nto be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere,\nbecause I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of\nmy being here? I am here because you have promised to make me your\nwife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the\nfact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I\nwas the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr.\nMelmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr.\nPaul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far-seeing\nto doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your\nletters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if\nyou dare.\" The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his\nimmediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce\na lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The position was one which\nrequired thought. After a while he took up his hat to go. \"Do you\nmean to tell her that my statement is untrue?\"\n\n\"No,--\" he said; \"not to-day.\"\n\n\"And you will come back to me?\"\n\n\"Yes;--I will come back.\"\n\n\"I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember all\nyour promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me.\" Then she\nlet him go without another word.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nMRS. HURTLE GOES TO THE PLAY.\n\n\nOn the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received the\nfollowing letter from Mrs. Hurtle:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR PAUL,--\n\n   I think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood\n   to each other yesterday, and I am sure that you do not\n   understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake.\n   I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to\n   London to make you conscious that I really love you. To a\n   woman such love is all important. She cannot throw it from\n   her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. Nor,\n   if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss\n   as a man bears it. Her thoughts have dwelt on it with\n   more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has\n   separated her from other things. My devotion to you has\n   separated me from everything.\n\n   But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant. If you choose\n   to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you\n   because you have seen some one fairer than I am, whatever\n   course I may take in my indignation, I shall not throw\n   myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs. I wish,\n   however, that you should hear me. You say that there is\n   some one you love better than you love me, but that you\n   have not committed yourself to her. Alas, I know too much\n   of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should\n   not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress.\n   A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with\n   an absent love as a woman does. But I think that some\n   remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that\n   you have seen me again. I think that you must have owned\n   to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love\n   me again. You sin against me to my utter destruction if\n   you leave me. I have given up every friend I have to\n   follow you. As regards the other--nameless lady, there can\n   be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of\n   your passion.\n\n   You hinted that there were other reasons,--that we know\n   too little of each other. You meant no doubt that you\n   knew too little of me. Is it not the case that you were\n   content when you knew only what was to be learned in those\n   days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made\n   discontented by stories told you by your partners at San\n   Francisco? If this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to\n   find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a\n   woman as you propose to treat me. I think you are too good\n   a man to cast aside a woman you have loved,--like a soiled\n   glove,--because ill-natured words have been spoken of her\n   by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life.\n   My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in\n   the State of Kansas when I married him, I being then in\n   possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my\n   mother. There his life was infamously bad. He spent what\n   money he could get of mine, and then left me and the\n   State, and took himself to Texas;--where he drank himself\n   to death. I did not follow him, and in his absence I was\n   divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas\n   State. I then went to San Francisco about property of my\n   mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a\n   countryman of ours now resident in Paris,--having forged\n   my name. There I met you, and in that short story I tell\n   you all that there is to be told. It may be that you do\n   not believe me now; but if so, are you not bound to go\n   where you can verify your own doubts or my word?\n\n   I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth\n   overborne by passion. I also have heard in California\n   rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your\n   letter. I resolved to follow you to England as soon as\n   circumstances would permit me. I have been forced to fight\n   a battle about my property, and I have won it. I had two\n   reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts\n   before I saw you. I had begun it and had determined that\n   I would not be beaten by fraud. And I was also determined\n   that I would not plead to you as a pauper. We have talked\n   too freely together in past days of our mutual money\n   matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them.\n   When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife\n   there should be no delicacy of that kind. When we came\n   here together we were both embarrassed. We both had some\n   property, but neither of us could enjoy it. Since that I\n   have made my way through my difficulties. From what I have\n   heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the\n   same. I at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from\n   this time our affairs can be made one.\n\n   And now about myself,--immediately. I have come here all\n   alone. Since I last saw you in New York I have not had\n   altogether a good time. I have had a great struggle and\n   have been thrown on my own resources and have been all\n   alone. Very cruel things have been said of me. You heard\n   cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said\n   to you with reference to my late husband. Since that they\n   have been said to others with reference to you. I have not\n   now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a\n   trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends\n   ready to receive me. It was necessary to me that I should\n   see you and hear my fate,--and here I am. I appeal to\n   you to release me in some degree from the misery of my\n   solitude. You know,--no one so well,--that my nature is\n   social and that I am not given to be melancholy. Let us be\n   cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a\n   day. Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be\n   seen as I used to be seen.\n\n   Come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine\n   together, and take me to one of your theatres. If you wish\n   it I will promise you not to allude to that revelation you\n   made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my\n   heart than any other matter. Perhaps some woman's vanity\n   makes me think that if you would only see me again, and\n   talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as\n   you used to think.\n\n   You need not fear but you will find me at home. I have no\n   whither to go,--and shall hardly stir from the house till\n   you come to me. Send me a line, however, that I may have\n   my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you.\n\n   Yours with all my heart,\n\n   WINIFRID HURTLE.\n\n\nThis letter took her much time to write, though she was very careful\nso to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen.\nShe copied it from the first draught, but she copied it rapidly, with\none or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have\nbeen done hurriedly. There had been much art in it. She had at any\nrate suppressed any show of anger. In calling him to her she had so\nwritten as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear\nthe claws of an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as a\nlioness who had lost her cub. She had almost ignored that other lady\nwhose name she had not yet heard. She had spoken of her lover's\nentanglement with that other lady as a light thing which might easily\nbe put aside. She had said much of her own wrongs, but had not said\nmuch of the wickedness of the wrong doer. Invited as she had invited\nhim, surely he could not but come to her! And then, in her reference\nto money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, she\nhad studied how to make him feel that he might marry her without\nimprudence. As she read it over to herself she thought that there\nwas a tone through it of natural feminine uncautious eagerness. She\nput her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and addressed\nit,--and then threw herself back in her chair to think of her\nposition.\n\nHe should marry her,--or there should be something done which should\nmake the name of Winifrid Hurtle known to the world! She had no plan\nof revenge yet formed. She would not talk of revenge,--she told\nherself that she would not even think of revenge,--till she was\nquite sure that revenge would be necessary. But she did think of it,\nand could not keep her thoughts from it for a moment. Could it be\npossible that she, with all her intellectual gifts as well as those\nof her outward person, should be thrown over by a man whom well\nas she loved him,--and she did love him with all her heart,--she\nregarded as greatly inferior to herself! He had promised to marry\nher; and he should marry her, or the world should hear the story of\nhis perjury!\n\nPaul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon as\nhe read the letter. That his heart was all the other way he was quite\nsure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from his\ntroubles open to him. There was not a single word in this woman's\nletter that he could contradict. He had loved her and had promised\nto make her his wife,--and had determined to break his word to her\nbecause he found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery. He\nhad so resolved before he had ever seen Hetta Carbury, having been\nmade to believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknown\nAmerican woman,--of whom he only did know that she was handsome and\nclever,--would be a step to ruin. The woman, as Roger said, was an\nadventuress,--might never have had a husband,--might at this moment\nhave two or three,--might be overwhelmed with debt,--might be\nanything bad, dangerous, and abominable. All that he had heard at San\nFrancisco had substantiated Roger's views. \"Any scrape is better than\nthat scrape,\" Roger had said to him. Paul had believed his Mentor,\nand had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen Hetta\nCarbury.\n\nBut what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passed\nbetween them, that he should leave Mrs. Hurtle at her lodgings at\nIslington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that she\nwould not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal,--though\nit seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition\nof their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort.\nTo take her out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to some\ntheatre, would be easy and perhaps pleasant. It would be easier,\nand certainly much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to\nabstain from talking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happy\nevenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they\nwere first together at New York. There could be no better companion\nfor such a festival. She could talk,--and she could listen as well as\ntalk. And she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense\nof her feminine charms by her simple proximity. He had been very\nhappy when so placed. Had it been possible he would have escaped\nthe danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in some sort\nreconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty.\n\nBut when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? When\nthe pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her\nback to her door, what should he say to her then? He must make some\narrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a great\nperil, and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could not\nnow go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury his\nrival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the\nwidow. Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow\nhimself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling,\nbut, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to\nRoger Carbury. He could not say all that he would have to say without\nspeaking of Hetta;--and of his love for Hetta he could not speak to\nhis rival.\n\nHe had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no other\nhuman being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself. He thought\nfor a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to the\nwoman, telling her that as it was impossible that there should ever\nbe marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from\nher society. But then he remembered her solitude, her picture of\nherself in London without even an acquaintance except himself, and he\nconvinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave\nher without seeing her. So he wrote to her thus;--\n\n\n   DEAR WINIFRID,\n\n   I will come for you to-morrow at half-past five. We will\n   dine together at the Thespian;--and then I will have a\n   box at the Haymarket. The Thespian is a good sort of\n   place, and lots of ladies dine there. You can dine in your\n   bonnet.\n\n   Yours affectionately,\n\n   P. M.\n\n\nSome half-formed idea ran through his brain that P. M. was a safer\nsignature than Paul Montague. Then came a long train of thoughts as\nto the perils of the whole proceeding. She had told him that she had\nannounced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged to\nhim, and he had in a manner authorised the statement by declining\nto contradict it at once. And now, after that announcement, he\nwas assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse\nthemselves together. Hitherto she had always seemed to him to\nbe open, candid, and free from intrigue. He had known her to be\nimpulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful. Perhaps\nhe was unable to read correctly the inner character of a woman whose\nexperience of the world had been much wider than his own. His mind\nmisgave him that it might be so; but still he thought that he knew\nthat she was not treacherous. And yet did not her present acts\njustify him in thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him?\nThe note, however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of the\nplay, leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves. He\nordered the dinner and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he was\nagain at her lodgings.\n\nThe woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs. Hurtle's\nsitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended\nto welcome him as an accepted lover. It was a smile half of\ncongratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as\na woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast.\nWho does not know the smile? What man, who has been caught and made\nsure, has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being so treated,\nunderstanding that the smile is intended to convey to him a sense of\nhis own captivity? It has, however, generally mattered but little to\nus. If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, because\nwe have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we\nalso have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the\nwhole we have gained more than we have lost. But with Paul Montague\nat the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,--only\na feeling of danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger,\nwith less chance of escape. He was almost tempted at this moment to\ndetain the woman, and tell her the truth,--and bear the immediate\nconsequences. But there would be treason in doing so, and he would\nnot, could not do it.\n\nHe was left hardly a moment to think of this. Almost before the woman\nhad shut the door, Mrs. Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with\nher hat on her head. Nothing could be more simple than her dress, and\nnothing prettier. It was now June, and the weather was warm, and the\nlady wore a light gauzy black dress,--there is a fabric which the\nmilliners I think call grenadine,--coming close up round her throat.\nIt was very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress. And she\nhad on a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty. There\nare times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to\nbe bright in her apparel,--almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly\nbe contented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and\nher gloves of some bright hue,--unless she wear roses or jewels in\nher hair. It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go\nintending that all the world shall know who they are. But there are\ntimes again in which a man would prefer that his companion should be\nvery quiet in her dress,--but still pretty; in which he would choose\nthat she should dress herself for him only. All this Mrs. Hurtle had\nunderstood accurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing of\nit, was gratified. \"You told me to have a hat, and here I am,--hat\nand all.\" She gave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantly\nat him, as though there was no cause of unhappiness between them. The\nlodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some little\nword as they went off. Paul did not hear the word, but was sure that\nit bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage.\n\nNeither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during the\nperformance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to her\nengagement. It was with them, as in former days it had been at New\nYork. She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now and\nagain with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclined\nto listen than to speak. Now and again she referred, after some\nslightest fashion, to little circumstances that had occurred between\nthem, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; but\nit was done as one man might do it to another,--if any man could have\ndone it so pleasantly. There was a scent which he had once approved,\nand now she bore it on her handkerchief. There was a ring which he\nhad once given her, and she wore it on the finger with which she\ntouched his sleeve. With his own hands he had once adjusted her\ncurls, and each curl was as he had placed it. She had a way of\nshaking her head, that was very pretty,--a way that might, one would\nthink, have been dangerous at her age, as likely to betray those\nfirst grey hairs which will come to disturb the last days of youth.\nHe had once told her in sport to be more careful. She now shook her\nhead again, and, as he smiled, she told him that she could still dare\nto be careless. There are a thousand little silly softnesses which\nare pretty and endearing between acknowledged lovers, with which\nno woman would like to dispense, to which even men who are in love\nsubmit sometimes with delight; but which in other circumstances would\nbe vulgar,--and to the woman distasteful. There are closenesses and\nsweet approaches, smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers,\ninnuendoes and hints, little mutual admirations and assurances that\nthere are things known to those two happy ones of which the world\nbeyond is altogether ignorant. Much of this comes of nature, but\nsomething of it sometimes comes by art. Of such art as there may\nbe in it Mrs. Hurtle was a perfect master. No allusion was made to\ntheir engagement,--not an unpleasant word was spoken; but the art was\npractised with all its pleasant adjuncts. Paul was flattered to the\ntop of his bent; and, though the sword was hanging over his head,\nthough he knew that the sword must fall,--must partly fall that very\nnight,--still he enjoyed it.\n\nThere are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even though\nthey may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded by\nthings feminine in all the affairs of their lives. Others again have\ntheir strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarely\naltogether happy when removed from their influence. Paul Montague was\nof the latter sort. At this time he was thoroughly in love with Hetta\nCarbury, and was not in love with Mrs. Hurtle. He would have given\nmuch of his golden prospects in the American railway to have had Mrs.\nHurtle reconveyed suddenly to San Francisco. And yet he had a delight\nin her presence. \"The acting isn't very good,\" he said when the piece\nwas nearly over.\n\n\"What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon\nthe humour. The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened and\nlaughed and cried, because I have been happy.\"\n\nHe was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and\nwas bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. \"It has\nbeen very jolly,\" he said.\n\n\"And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. I wonder\nwhether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover\ntalked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writers\nand actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day.\nIt's all right that she should cry, but she shouldn't cry there.\" The\nposition described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothing\nto this. She had so spoken on purpose,--fighting her own battle after\nher own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. \"A\nwoman hides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unable\nto hide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman see\nthem. Does she?\"\n\n\"I suppose not.\"\n\n\"Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa.\"\n\n\"Women are not all Medeas,\" he replied.\n\n\"There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. I am quite\nready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall. And I have\nhad no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. Are\nyou going to see me home?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself.\" But\nof course he accompanied her to Islington. He owed her at any rate as\nmuch as that. She continued to talk during the whole journey. What a\nwonderful place London was,--so immense, but so dirty! New York of\ncourse was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter. But Paris\nwas the gem of gems among towns. She did not like Frenchmen, and she\nliked Englishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that she\ncould never like English women. \"I do so hate all kinds of buckram. I\nlike good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down\none's throat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose\nwhat we have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite\nsure that it has not been in the least wicked.\"\n\n\"I don't think it has,\" said Paul Montague very tamely.\n\nIt is a long way from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last the\ncab reached the lodging-house door. \"Yes, this is it,\" she said.\n\"Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety\nwhich frightens me.\" She was getting out as she spoke, and he had\nalready knocked at the door. \"Come in for one moment,\" she said\nas he paid the cabman. The woman the while was standing with the\ndoor in her hand. It was near midnight,--but, when people are\nengaged, hours do not matter. The woman of the house, who was\nrespectability herself,--a nice kind widow, with five children, named\nPipkin,--understood that and smiled again as he followed the lady\ninto the sitting-room. She had already taken off her hat and was\nflinging it on to the sofa as he entered. \"Shut the door for one\nmoment,\" she said; and he shut it. Then she threw herself into his\narms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. \"Oh Paul,\" she\nexclaimed, \"my darling! Oh Paul, my love! I will not bear to be\nseparated from you. No, no;--never. I swear it, and you may believe\nme. There is nothing I cannot do for love of you,--but to lose you.\"\nThen she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her\nhands together. \"But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night.\nIt was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard\nschool-time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see me\nagain soon,--will you not?\" He nodded assent, then took her in his\narms and kissed her, and left her without a word.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nDOLLY LONGESTAFFE GOES INTO THE CITY.\n\n\nIt has been told how the gambling at the Beargarden went on one\nSunday night. On the following Monday Sir Felix did not go to the\nclub. He had watched Miles Grendall at play, and was sure that on\nmore than one or two occasions the man had cheated. Sir Felix did not\nquite know what in such circumstances it would be best for him to do.\nReprobate as he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and\nseemed to be very terrible. What steps ought he to take? He was quite\nsure of his facts, and yet he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough\nand Longestaffe would not believe him. He would have told Montague,\nbut Montague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to\nbe of any use to him. On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club.\nHe felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been\naccustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred\nover. He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had\ncheated him without saying anything about it. On the Wednesday\nafternoon life was becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into\nthe building at about five in the afternoon. There, as a matter of\ncourse, he found Dolly Longestaffe drinking sherry and bitters.\n\"Where the blessed angels have you been?\" said Dolly. Dolly was at\nthat moment alert with the sense of a duty performed. He had just\ncalled on his sister and written a sharp letter to his father, and\nfelt himself to be almost a man of business.\n\n\"I've had fish of my own to fry,\" said Felix, who had passed the last\ntwo days in unendurable idleness. Then he referred again to the money\nwhich Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking for\nimmediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance that if\na commercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this moment, be\nvery serviceable to him. \"I'm particularly anxious to take up those\nshares,\" said Felix.\n\n\"Of course you ought to have your money.\"\n\n\"I don't say that at all, old fellow. I know very well that you're\nall right. You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall.\"\n\n\"Well; no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I\nsuppose I could get it, and so I ought to pay.\"\n\n\"That's no excuse for Grendall,\" said Sir Felix, shaking his head.\n\n\"A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury. A chap ought to pay\nof course. I've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half\nhour--here it is.\" And Dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket\nwhich he had opened and read indeed within the last hour, but which\nhad been duly delivered at his lodgings early in the morning. \"My\ngovernor wants to sell Pickering, and Melmotte wants to buy the\nplace. My governor can't sell without me, and I've asked for half the\nplunder. I know what's what. My interest in the property is greater\nthan his. It isn't much of a place, and they are talking of £50,000,\nover and above the debt upon it. £25,000 would pay off what I owe on\nmy own property, and make me very square. From what this fellow says\nI suppose they're going to give in to my terms.\"\n\n\"By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly.\"\n\n\"Oh yes. Of course I want it. But I don't like the place going. I'm\nnot much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself\nto go in for things as I ought to do; but I've a sort of feeling that\nI don't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't\nto let his family property go to pieces.\"\n\n\"You never lived at Pickering.\"\n\n\"No;--and I don't know that it is any good. It gives us 3 per cent.\non the money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per cent.,\nand I'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it\nthan you'd think. It ought to be sold, and now I suppose it will be\nsold. Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if you like I'll go with\nyou to the city to-morrow and make it straight about what I owe you.\nHe'll advance me £1,000, and then you can get the shares. Are you\ngoing to dine here?\"\n\nSir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, with\nconsiderable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and play\nwhist afterwards. He acceded willingly to Dolly's plan of visiting\nAbchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty in\ninducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for\ncity purposes. Dolly suggested that they should meet at the club at\n4 P.M. Sir Felix had named noon, and promised to call at Dolly's\nlodgings. They split the difference at last and agreed to start\nat two. They then dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at\nthe next table to them. Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other\nfrequently, but in that conversation the young baronet would not\njoin. Nor did Grendall ever address himself to Sir Felix. \"Is there\nanything up between you and Miles?\" said Dolly, when they had\nadjourned to the smoking-room.\n\n\"I can't bear him.\"\n\n\"There never was any love between you two, I know. But you used to\nspeak, and you've played with him all through.\"\n\n\"Played with him! I should think I have. Though he did get such a\nhaul last Sunday he owes me more than you do now.\"\n\n\"Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?\"\n\nSir Felix paused a moment. \"No;--that is not the reason. I'll tell\nyou all about it in the cab to-morrow.\" Then he left the club,\ndeclaring that he would go up to Grosvenor Square and see Marie\nMelmotte. He did go up to the Square, and when he came to the house\nhe would not go in. What was the good? He could do nothing further\ntill he got old Melmotte's consent, and in no way could he so\nprobably do that as by showing that he had got money wherewith to buy\nshares in the railway. What he did with himself during the remainder\nof the evening the reader need not know, but on his return home at\nsome comparatively early hour, he found this note from Marie.\n\n\n   Wednesday Afternoon.\n\n   DEAREST FELIX,\n\n   Why don't we see you? Mamma would say nothing if you\n   came. Papa is never in the drawing-room. Miss Longestaffe\n   is here of course, and people always come in in the\n   evening. We are just going to dine out at the Duchess of\n   Stevenage's. Papa, and mamma and I. Mamma told me that\n   Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit\n   afraid. I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never\n   take any one but the man I love. You know who that is.\n   Miss Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with\n   us. What do you think of her telling me that she did not\n   understand being left alone? We are to go afterwards to a\n   musical party at Lady Gamut's. Miss Longestaffe is going\n   with us, but she says that she hates music. She is such a\n   set-up thing! I wonder why papa has her here. We don't go\n   anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray come.\n\n   And why haven't you written me something and sent it to\n   Didon? She won't betray us. And if she did, what matters?\n   I mean to be true. If papa were to beat me into a mummy\n   I would stick to you. He told me once to take Lord\n   Nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him. And now he\n   wants me to take him again. But I won't. I'll take no one\n   but my own darling.\n\n   Yours for ever and ever,\n\n   MARIE.\n\n\nNow that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own\nin life, she was determined to make the most of it. All this was\ndelightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply \"a bother.\" Sir\nFelix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow,--on condition\nof course that the money was properly arranged; but he was not\nwilling to go through much work in the way of love-making with Marie\nMelmotte. In such business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a companion.\n\nOn the following day Felix was with his friend at the appointed time,\nand was only kept an hour waiting while Dolly ate his breakfast and\nstruggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix\ntold his dreadful story about Miles Grendall. \"By George!\" said\nDolly. \"And you think you saw him do it!\"\n\n\"It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I\nbelieve he always had an ace somewhere about him.\" Dolly sat quite\nsilent thinking of it. \"What had I better do?\" asked Sir Felix.\n\n\"By George;--I don't know.\"\n\n\"What should you do?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all. I shouldn't believe my own eyes. Or if I did, should\ntake care not to look at him.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't go on playing with him?\"\n\n\"Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up.\"\n\n\"But Dolly,--if you think of it!\"\n\n\"That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it.\"\n\n\"And you won't give me your advice.\"\n\n\"Well;--no; I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why\ndid you pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nidderdale?\"\n\n\"He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?\"\n\n\"No, he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out\nfor this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me\nsuch a story as this I wouldn't have come with you.\"\n\n\"That's nonsense, Dolly.\"\n\n\"Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all in a\ntwitter already.\"\n\n\"You mean to go on playing just the same?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy I should begin to\nthink about it, I suppose. Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for\nthe man of money.\"\n\nThe man of money received them much more graciously than Sir Felix\nhad expected. Of course nothing was said about Marie and no further\nallusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's \"property.\"\nBoth Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which\nthe great financier understood their views and the readiness with\nwhich he undertook to comply with them. No disagreeable questions\nwere asked as to the nature of the debt between the young men. Dolly\nwas called upon to sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to\nsign one,--and then they were assured that the thing was done. Mr.\nAdolphus Longestaffe had paid Sir Felix Carbury a thousand pounds,\nand Sir Felix Carbury's commission had been accepted by Mr. Melmotte\nfor the purchase of railway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted\nto say a word. He endeavoured to explain that his object in this\ncommercial transaction was to make money immediately by reselling\nthe shares,--and to go on continually making money by buying at a\nlow price and selling at a high price. He no doubt did believe that,\nbeing a Director, if he could once raise the means of beginning this\ngame, he could go on with it for an unlimited period;--buy and sell,\nbuy and sell;--so that he would have an almost regular income. This,\nas far as he could understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed\nto do,--simply because he had become a Director with a little money.\nMr. Melmotte was cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go\ninto particulars. It was all right. \"You will wish to sell again, of\ncourse;--of course. I'll watch the market for you.\" When the young\nmen left the room all they knew, or thought that they knew, was, that\nDolly Longestaffe had authorised Melmotte to pay a thousand pounds on\nhis behalf to Sir Felix, and that Sir Felix had instructed the same\ngreat man to buy shares with the amount. \"But why didn't he give you\nthe scrip?\" said Dolly on his way westwards.\n\n\"I suppose it's all right with him,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"Oh yes;--it's all right. Thousands of pounds to him are only like\nhalf-crowns to us fellows. I should say it's all right. All the same,\nhe's the biggest rogue out, you know.\" Sir Felix already began to be\nunhappy about his thousand pounds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nMISS MELMOTTE'S COURAGE.\n\n\nLady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the\nprosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he\nwas persecuted. \"I have spoken to her father,\" he said crossly.\n\n\"And what did Mr. Melmotte say?\"\n\n\"Say;--what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got.\nAfter all he's an old screw.\"\n\n\"Did he forbid you to come there any more?\"\n\n\"Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let me\nalone I'll do the best I can.\"\n\n\"She has accepted you, herself?\"\n\n\"Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury.\"\n\n\"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed.\nIt's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you\nmarry the girl. You could do it now because I know you've got money.\nFrom all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with\nyou.\" The son sat silent, listening to these maternal councils. He\ndid believe that Marie would go off with him, were he to propose\nthe scheme to her. Her own father had almost alluded to such a\nproceeding,--had certainly hinted that it was feasible,--but at the\nsame time had very clearly stated that in such case the ardent lover\nwould have to content himself with the lady alone. In any such event\nas that there would be no fortune. But then, might not that only be a\nthreat? Rich fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich\nfather with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned\nto him, as she would do in this instance, graced with a title. Sir\nFelix thought of all this as he sat there silent. His mother read his\nthoughts as she continued. \"Of course, Felix, there must be some\nrisk.\"\n\n\"Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!\" he exclaimed. \"I\ncouldn't bear it. I think I should kill her.\"\n\n\"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be\nsome risk I mean that there would be very little. There would be\nnothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody\nelse to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his\ndaughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the\nworld.\"\n\n\"I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it.\"\n\n\"You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her\nparents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of\nthem as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you.\nIf this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve\nunless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away\nat once. They say she is of age.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't know where to take her,\" said Sir Felix, almost stunned\ninto thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him.\n\"All that about Scotland is done with now.\"\n\n\"Of course you would marry her at once.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,--unless it were better to stay as we were, till the\nmoney was settled.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a\nspirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you.\nThat's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come\nround, if--\"\n\n\"The mother is nothing.\"\n\n\"He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get\nMr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would.\nTen thousand a year is not to be had every year.\"\n\nSir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to\nrelieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But\nthe prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money\nsufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter\nnow, it might well be that he would never again find himself so\ncircumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought\nto take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would\nthen make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the\nman to tell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand\nthings. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good\nfriends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would\nbe sure to tell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He\nthought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him.\nThere would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not\nextricate \"a fellow,\"--if \"the fellow\" paid him.\n\nOn Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by\nMarie,--but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord\nNidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis\nof Auld Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know.\nHe was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very\nstiff grey hair,--almost white. He was standing up supporting himself\non two sticks when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also\npresent Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had\nentered the hall one huge footman had said that the ladies were not\nat home; then there had been for a moment a whispering behind a\ndoor,--in which he afterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a\npart;--and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first\nand had ushered him up to the drawing-room. He felt considerably\nembarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who\nseemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He\nhad not had time to place himself, when the Marquis arranged things.\n\"Suppose we go down-stairs,\" said the Marquis.\n\n\"Certainly, my lord,\" said Melmotte. \"I'll show your lordship the\nway.\" The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his\nstick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated Nidderdale\nfollowed the financier, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.\n\nMadame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. \"You should not\nhave been made to come up at all,\" she said. \"Il faut que vous vous\nretirez.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast.\n\n\"I think that I had at any rate better retire,\" said Miss\nLongestaffe, raising herself to her full height and stalking out of\nthe room.\n\n\"Qu'elle est méchante,\" said Madame Melmotte. \"Oh, she is so bad. Sir\nFelix, you had better go too. Yes,--indeed.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. \"Why\nshould he go? I want papa to know.\"\n\n\"Il vous tuera,\" said Madame Melmotte. \"My God, yes.\"\n\n\"Then he shall,\" said Marie, clinging to her lover. \"I will never\nmarry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do\nit. Felix, you love me;--do you not?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Marie, \"I will never have any other man but\nhim;--never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me.\"\n\n\"You know that, don't you, ma'am?\" Sir Felix was a little troubled in\nhis mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.\n\n\"Oh, love! It is a beastliness,\" said Madame Melmotte. \"Sir Felix,\nyou had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?\"\n\n\"Don't go,\" said Marie. \"No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to be\nafraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that\nI will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will\nyou come?\"\n\nSir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a\nsavage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a\nheavy sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the\ninvitation. \"I don't think I have a right to do that,\" he said,\n\"because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't mind,\" said Marie. \"I told papa to-day that I wouldn't\nmarry Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"Was he angry with you?\"\n\n\"He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody\nmust do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do\nit. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me,\nnothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody\nthat I love you.\"\n\nMadame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing.\nSir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's waist,\nlistening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to\nthem,--when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs.\n\"C'est lui,\" screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from her seat and\nhurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone\nfor one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix\nkissed her lips. \"Now be brave,\" she said, escaping from his arm,\n\"and I'll be brave.\" Mr. Melmotte looked round the room as he\nentered. \"Where are the others?\" he asked.\n\n\"Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma.\"\n\n\"Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is\nengaged to marry Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"Sir Felix, I am not engaged--to--marry Lord Nidderdale,\" said Marie.\n\"It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't\ndo it.\"\n\n\"She will marry Lord Nidderdale,\" continued Mr. Melmotte, addressing\nhimself to Sir Felix. \"As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it\nbetter to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with\nyou as soon as the fact is recognised;--or happy to see you in the\ncity at any time.\"\n\n\"Papa, he is my lover,\" said Marie.\n\n\"Pooh!\"\n\n\"It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord\nNidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to\nlook at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved\nme, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life.\"\n\nHer father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she\nclung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix\ndid not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself\nout in the square. \"Jade!\" said Melmotte, \"get to your room.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Get to your room.\"]\n\n\n\"Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa.\"\n\n\"I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me!\nHave you no idea of disgrace?\"\n\n\"I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that\nother man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going.\" He took her by\nthe arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.\n\n\"I am very sorry, Mr. Melmotte,\" said Sir Felix, \"to have had a hand\nin causing this disturbance.\"\n\n\"Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't both\nmarry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to\ngive my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent.\nBy the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling.\nBut look you,--if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate\nwith you in anything you may wish to have done in the city.\"\n\nAfter this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the\ndoor opened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he\nwent through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his\nhand,--which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It\nwas dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray\nwhich had just taken place. It ran as follows:--\n\n\n   I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot\n   tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in\n   France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on\n   me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to\n   live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to\n   me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been\n   undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry\n   about you this morning, for I told him I would never give\n   you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry\n   without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I\n   tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything.\n\n   M.\n\n\nSir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become\nengaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she\ndid not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her\nlover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no\nreason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the\ngirl's name, if he could lay his hands on it. He did not know much of\nsuch transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and could\nunderstand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure\na portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his\ndaughter. Whether having so settled it, he could again resume it\nwithout the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who\nhad no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when\nthe thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she\nmight possibly derive from it. Her proposition, put into plain\nEnglish, amounted to this: \"Take me and marry me without my father's\nconsent,--and then you and I together can rob my father of the money\nwhich, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me.\" He had looked\nupon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special\ncharacter of her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by\nthe fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to\nloom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had had a\nwill of her own when the mother had none. She had not been afraid of\nher brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She\nhad offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf\nof her lover. There could be no doubt about her running away if she\nwere asked.\n\nIt seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great\ndeal of experience, and that things which heretofore had been\ntroublesome to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now\ncoming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand\npounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of\nthe small play in which he had before indulged. He had been set to\nmarry this heiress, having at first no great liking for the attempt,\nbecause of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which it\noffered him. The girl was already willing and anxious to jump into\nhis arms. Then he had detected a man cheating at cards,--an extent\nof iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it,--and was\nalready beginning to think that there was not very much in that. If\nthere was not much in it, if such a man as Miles Grendall could cheat\nat cards and be brought to no punishment, why should not he try it?\nIt was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. He remembered that on one or\ntwo occasions he had asked his adversary to cut the cards a second\ntime at whist, because he had observed that there was no honour at\nthe bottom. No feeling of honesty had interfered with him. The little\ntrick had hardly been premeditated, but when successful without\ndetection had not troubled his conscience. Now it seemed to him that\nmuch more than that might be done without detection. But nothing\nhad opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet\nlittle lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her\nfather. It certainly recommended the girl to him. She had been able\nat an early age, amidst the circumstances of a very secluded life,\nto throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty, those\nbugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great enterprises in\nthe minds of men.\n\nWhat should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so\neasily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while\nof such a man as Mr. Melmotte to make a trifling provision of this\nnature. It could hardly be less than £50,000,--might probably be\nvery much more. But this was certain to him,--that if he and Marie\nwere to claim this money as man and wife, there could then be no\nhope of further liberality. It was not probable that such a man\nas Mr. Melmotte would forgive even an only child such an offence\nas that. Even if it were obtained, £50,000 would not be very much.\nAnd Melmotte might probably have means, even if the robbery were\nduly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money very\nuncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was\npreparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether\ncomfortable, although he liked the deep waters.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nMR. MELMOTTE'S PROMISE.\n\n\nOn the following Saturday there appeared in Mr. Alf's paper, the\n\"Evening Pulpit,\" a very remarkable article on the South Central\nPacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great\ndeal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing\nmore remarkable than in this,--that it left on the mind of its reader\nno impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The Editor\nwould at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal\npride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact,\nor whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde\nof swindlers. In utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious,\nsuggestive, amusing, well-informed,--that in the \"Evening Pulpit\"\nwas a matter of course,--and, above all things, ironical. Next to\nits omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to\nthe \"Evening Pulpit.\" There was a little praise given, no doubt in\nirony, to the duchesses who served Mr. Melmotte. There was a little\npraise, given of course in irony, to Mr. Melmotte's Board of English\nDirectors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a\ndash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilising Mexico by joining\nit to California. Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the\nmatter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity\nto believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself.\nThen there was something said of the universality of Mr. Melmotte's\ncommercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate\nfailure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled\ncommercial splendour, no one could tell.\n\nIt was generally said at the clubs that Mr. Alf had written this\narticle himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men\npossessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides\nPallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this\nlast forty years, professed that he saw through the article. The\n\"Evening Pulpit\" had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as\nit could in denouncing Mr. Melmotte without incurring the danger of\nan action for libel. Mr. Splinter thought that the thing was clever\nbut mean. These new publications generally were mean. Mr. Splinter\nwas constant in that opinion; but, putting the meanness aside,\nhe thought that the article was well done. According to his view\nit was intended to expose Mr. Melmotte and the railway. But the\nPaides Pallados generally did not agree with him. Under such an\ninterpretation, what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which\nthe writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another\nwas worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted\nto men? Old Splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and\ndeclared that there was not wit enough left now even among the Paides\nPallados to understand a shaft of irony. There could be no doubt,\nhowever, at the time, that the world did not go with old Splinter,\nand that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the\ngreat railway enterprise.\n\nLady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the\nrailway, and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a\nsomewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the\nright direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own\nadvantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might\nbecome his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life.\nHe was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Marie Melmotte. He was\na Director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the\ngreat commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London. And\nhe was a baronet. Very wild ideas occurred to her. Should she take\nMr. Alf into her entire confidence? If Melmotte and Alf could be\nbrought together what might they not do? Alf could write up Melmotte,\nand Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf. And if Melmotte would come\nand be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she\ncould flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage\nabout the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she\ncould construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her\nhands? And if, while this was a-doing, Felix would run away with\nMarie, could not forgiveness be made easy? And her creative mind\nranged still farther. Mr. Broune might help, and even Mr. Booker. To\nsuch a one as Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of\nthe confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken\nsupport of the Press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in\na railway as to which Mr. Broune and Mr. Alf would combine in saying\nthat it was managed by \"divinity\"? Her thoughts were rather hazy, but\nfrom day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself.\n\nOn the Sunday afternoon Mr. Booker called on her and talked to her\nabout the article. She did not say much to Mr. Booker as to her own\nconnection with Mr. Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was\nessential in the present emergency. But she listened with all her\nears. It was Mr. Booker's idea that the man was going \"to make a\nspoon or spoil a horn.\" \"You think him honest;--don't you?\" asked\nLady Carbury. Mr. Booker smiled and hesitated. \"Of course, I mean\nhonest as men can be in such very large transactions.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is the best way of putting it,\" said Mr. Booker.\n\n\"If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity,\nsimply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor\nto his race by creating that belief?\"\n\n\"At the expense of veracity?\" suggested Mr. Booker.\n\n\"At the expense of anything?\" rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. \"One\ncannot measure such men by the ordinary rule.\"\n\n\"You would do evil to produce good?\" asked Mr. Booker.\n\n\"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living\ncreatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think\nof that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without\nendangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly.\nYou tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may\ncreate a new world in which millions will be rich and happy.\"\n\n\"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity,\" said Lady\nCarbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite\nsatisfied with herself as she picked them. \"Did I hold your place,\nMr. Booker, in the literature of my country,--\"\n\n\"I hold no place, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"Yes;--and a very distinguished place. Were I circumstanced as you\nare I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my\nperiodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great\na man and so great an object as this.\"\n\n\"I should be dismissed to-morrow,\" said Mr. Booker, getting up\nand laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carbury felt that, as\nregarded Mr. Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that\ncould not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through\nMr. Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening,--her regular\nTuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her\ndrawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them.\nShe had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to\nanybody had written to Mr. Melmotte himself, asking him to honour her\npoor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to\nhim, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham, telling him that\non a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his daughter had been so\nkind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the\npotentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee\nwith the purest satisfaction. He wrote back,--or Miles Grendall did\nfor him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's\ninvitation.\n\nThe great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate\nwing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their\ndear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's\nengagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the\nutmost audacity rushed off to the article in the \"Pulpit.\" Her\nfriend, Mr. Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness\nof Mr. Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr. Melmotte's\nundertakings. Mr. Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was\ninaudible. \"Now I must introduce you to Mr. Alf,\" said the lady.\nThe introduction was effected, and Mr. Alf explained that it was\nhardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of Mr.\nMelmotte's guests.\n\n\"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never shall\nsee,\" said Mr. Melmotte.\n\n\"I was one of the unfortunates,\" said Mr. Alf.\n\n\"I'm sorry you were unfortunate. If you had come into the whist-room\nyou would have found me.\"\n\n\"Ah,--if I had but known!\" said Mr. Alf. The editor, as was proper,\ncarried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so\neffectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.\n\nLady Carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected\nfrom this last introduction, tried another. \"Mr. Melmotte,\" she said,\nwhispering to him, \"I do so want to make you known to Mr. Broune. Mr.\nBroune I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much\nheavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr.\nBroune, as of course you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.' There\nis hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Broune. And\nthey declare, you know,\" she said, lowering the tone of her whisper\nas she communicated the fact, \"that his commercial articles are\ngospel,--absolutely gospel.\" Then the two men were named to each\nother, and Lady Carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing.\n\n\"Getting very hot,\" said Mr. Melmotte.\n\n\"Very hot indeed,\" said Mr. Broune.\n\n\"It was over 70 in the city to-day. I call that very hot for June.\"\n\n\"Very hot indeed,\" said Mr. Broune again. Then the conversation was\nover. Mr. Broune sidled away, and Mr. Melmotte was left standing in\nthe middle of the room. Lady Carbury told herself at the moment that\nRome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied\ncertainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day.\nPerseverance, however, was the thing wanted.\n\nBut Mr. Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left\nthe house he said it. \"It was very good of you to ask me, Lady\nCarbury;--very good.\" Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that the\ngoodness was all on the other side. \"And I came,\" continued Mr.\nMelmotte, \"because I had something particular to say. Otherwise\nI don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to\nmy daughter.\" Lady Carbury looked up into his face with all her\neyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped\nthem, put one upon his sleeve. \"My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to\nanother man.\"\n\n\"You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmotte?\"\n\n\"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all.\nYou reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a Director at our\nBoard.\"\n\n\"I did;--I did.\"\n\n\"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him\nin any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from\nthis offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see that he does\nuncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night,\nma'am.\" Then Mr. Melmotte took his departure without another word.\n\nHere at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man\nthat he would be the \"making of Felix,\" if Felix would only obey\nhim--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance\nthat if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not\ngive his son-in-law a shilling! There was very much to be considered\nin this. She did not doubt that Felix might be \"made\" by Mr.\nMelmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making\nmust depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did\nnot possess. The wife without the money would be terrible! That would\nbe absolute ruin! There could be no escape then; no hope. There was\nan appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated\nthe position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed\nMarie Melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of\nthem but what she could supply. It would kill her. And for those\nyoung people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the\nworkhouse. As she thought of this she trembled with true maternal\ninstincts. Her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts,\nso fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world!\nThough the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble\nand disinterested.\n\nBut the girl was an only child. The future honours of the house\nof Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt\nthe father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that\npreference, would of course do as he was now doing. That he should\nthreaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his\nwishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of\ncourse that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once\neffected? His daughter would return to him with a title, though\nwith one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself\npersonally, Lady Carbury felt that the great financier had been very\nrude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to\nher house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could\npass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by\npassing it over.\n\nShe looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might\nconsult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most\nnatural friend was Roger Carbury. But even had he been there she\ncould not have consulted him on any matter touching the Melmottes.\nHis advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have\nnothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was\nold fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived\nin a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which,\nwhether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on\nMr. Broune. She was afraid of Mr. Alf. She had almost begun to think\nthat Mr. Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But\nMr. Broune was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article,\nbut would not be sympathetic as a friend. Mr. Broune had been very\ncourteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had\nalmost feared that the \"susceptible old goose\" was going to be a\ngoose again. That would be a bore; but still she might make use\nof the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would\nproduce. When her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside\nto him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after\nthe rest of the company? He did stay, and when all the others were\ngone she asked her daughter to leave them. \"Hetta,\" she said, \"I have\nsomething of business to communicate to Mr. Broune.\" And so they were\nleft alone.\n\n\"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmotte,\" she said smiling.\nHe had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair\nwhich she occupied. In reply, he only shook his head and laughed.\n\"I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it; for he certainly is a\nwonderful man.\"\n\n\"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie,\nI should say, chiefly in conversation. Though, indeed, there is no\nreason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little,\nI said less.\"\n\n\"It didn't just come off,\" Lady Carbury suggested with her sweetest\nsmile. \"But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified\nin regarding you as a real friend.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said, putting out his hand for hers.\n\nShe gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back\nagain,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord.\n\"Stupid old goose!\" she said to herself. \"And now to my story. You\nknow my boy, Felix?\" The editor nodded his head. \"He is engaged to\nmarry that man's daughter.\"\n\n\"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?\" Then Lady Carbury nodded her head.\n\"Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever\nproduced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with\nhim,--as is he with her.\" She tried to tell her story truly, knowing\nthat no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true\nstory;--but lying had become her nature. \"Melmotte naturally wants\nher to marry the lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter\nmarried Felix she should not have a penny.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?\"\n\n\"Just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the\nobject of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take\nit as we get it.\"\n\n\"He would be sure to make some such threat.\"\n\n\"Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people\nare not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I\nmust tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist,\nhe would enable him to make a fortune in the city.\"\n\n\"That's bosh,\" said Broune with decision.\n\n\"Do you think it must be so;--certainly?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte, would give\nme a worse opinion of him than I have ever held.\"\n\n\"He did make it.\"\n\n\"Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of\ndeceiving.\"\n\n\"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American\nRailway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young\nman who was altogether unconnected with him.\"\n\n\"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a\ntitle, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be\nlikely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell\na few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter rightly, he\nhas no capital to go into such a business.\"\n\n\"No;--he has no capital.\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a\npromise as that.\"\n\n\"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?\"\n\nMr. Broune hesitated before he replied to this question. But it was\nto this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a reply.\nShe wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an\nelopement. She rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time.\n\"Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared\nto take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do\nyou think he would be wrong?\"\n\n\"That is a question very hard to answer.\"\n\n\"People do it every day. Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the other day\nwith Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. It was the\ngentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old Lady\nCatchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as\noffering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young lord\ndidn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion.\"\n\n\"There would be nothing disgraceful.\"\n\n\"I didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those\nthings a man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I\nthink that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance\nafterwards,--I think he would.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to hear you say that.\"\n\n\"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be\nplaced on that promise of assistance.\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you,\" said Lady\nCarbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the\ngirl. \"You have been so very kind.\" Then again she gave him her hand,\nas though to bid him farewell for the night.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, \"I also have something to say to you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nMR. BROUNE HAS MADE UP HIS MIND.\n\n\n\"And now I have something to say to you.\" Mr. Broune as he thus spoke\nto Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There\nwas an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the\nlady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she\nunderstood. \"The susceptible old goose is going to do something\nhighly ridiculous and very disagreeable.\" It was thus that she spoke\nto herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she\ndid not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility\nof the \"old goose\" would declare itself. \"Lady Carbury,\" said Mr.\nBroune, standing up a second time, \"we are neither of us so young as\nwe used to be.\"\n\n\"No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the\nluxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to\nknow each other intimately.\"\n\nThis speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was\nevidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of\nlife at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as a\nfact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could\nwalk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the\npark with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards\nwork through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness\nwhich nothing but sound health could produce. Mr. Broune, thinking of\nhimself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should\nnot be in love. \"I hope we know each other intimately at any rate,\"\nhe said somewhat lamely.\n\n\"Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for\nadvice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you.\"\n\n\"I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing\nto do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us\nso young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a\nfoolish truism.\"\n\n\"I did not think so,\" said Lady Carbury smiling.\n\n\"Or would have been, only that I intended something further.\" Mr.\nBroune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get\nout of it. \"I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old\nto--love.\"\n\nFoolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of\nhimself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome\nand less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve to\nexplain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it be\nstated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor\nof the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" intended to make her an offer of\nmarriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are\nfond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. The\nfalseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did\nnot shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to\nbe in love with some lady in the next street, she would have been\nquite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends\nthat she might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr. Broune.\nFor herself such make-belief of an improper passion would be\ninconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed\nas Mr. Broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a large\nincome, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted,\nfêted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire to\nshare her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and\nher obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. There\nwas a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to be\ncapable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paid\nto herself. She thought so badly of men and women generally, and of\nMr. Broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that she\nwas unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. \"Mr.\nBroune,\" she said, \"I did not think that you would take advantage of\nthe confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way.\"\n\n\"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular.\nAfter much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That\nI should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a\nmatter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps\ntoo true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too\neasily.\"\n\nThe word \"wife\" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed\nall her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him.\nShe felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the\ncards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some\nhandsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether\nmillstone. This man was a friend to be used,--to be used because he\nknew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew\nas little of the world as any other man. Mr. Broune of the \"Daily\nBreakfast Table\" asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other\nfeelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory of\nher distant youth, and almost made her weep. That a man,--such a\nman,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon her\nhalf his blessings! What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked\nupon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionless\nremnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he not\nonly had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could\ntouch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!\n\nIt was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was only\nnatural that she should at first think what answer would best assist\nher own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that\nshe could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her\nout of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a\nfather, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary\ncareer to the wife of the editor of the \"Morning Breakfast Table!\"\nAnd then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that\nthe man was paid £3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or\nany part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she\nwere the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at once\nduring that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the\ndeclaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were\npresent to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had\nbeen the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had\nengendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost\ncrushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. Then her\nhusband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. After\nthat the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopes\nnever as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had\nbeen always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the\nremembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minute\nwas over and she was bound to speak. \"Mr. Broune,\" she said, \"you\nhave quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this\nkind.\"\n\nAnd now Mr. Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. \"Lady\nCarbury,\" he said, \"I have lived a long time without marrying, and I\nhave sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the\nsame way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I\nwas young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on,\nmy mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised the\nwant which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me till\nI fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others would\nthink me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant\ngallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep\nthe beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the\nfreshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with\nabsolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much before\nI resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another\nperson. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide your\nhappiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping.\"\nPoor Mr. Broune! Though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the\nediting of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacity\nfor reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of\nLady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded\nby love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness\nto such keeping.\n\n\"You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment,\"\nejaculated Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As\nGod is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon\nyour position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity\nas the uttermost that can be achieved.\"\n\n\"That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share\nwith you.\"\n\n\"You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I\nto know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr.\nBroune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded\nin every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly\nendure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have\nlooked for happiness.\"\n\n\"Has it made you happy?\"\n\n\"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered!\nI have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune.\"\n\n\"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion\nto you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the\ntroubles which may attend your son's future career.\"\n\n\"Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than\nanything in the world.\" This was calculated to damp the lover's\nardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful,\ntime might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed.\n\"Mr. Broune,\" she said, \"I am now so agitated that you had better\nleave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will\nwonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock.\"\n\n\"When may I hope for an answer?\"\n\n\"You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once.\nI will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on\nThursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer;\nbut I am so surprised that I have none ready.\" He took her hand in\nhis, and kissing it, left her without another word.\n\nAs he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key\nfrom the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from\nhis club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into\nMr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. \"Halloo, old\nfellow,\" he said, \"you've been keeping it up late here; haven't\nyou?\" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition,\npassed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the\ndrawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just\npassed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her\nson stumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out\nto him. \"Felix,\" she said, \"why do you make so much noise as you come\nin?\"\n\n\"Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your\npeople's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that\nwon't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right,\nmother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right.\" And so he stumbled up to bed, and\nhis mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed\nsquarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.\n\nMr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those\npangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that which\nfor days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better\nleave undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his\nlady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse\ncan be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son?\nThe evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to\nbe borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict\nhimself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted to\nthe cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How would\nthis new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; must\nlive under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And what\nwas he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked\nher beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she\nhad flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been long\nenough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along\nthe streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every\nnow and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of\nher beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter,\nthough it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to\nmake the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the\nmemory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet.\n\nWhether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing\nwas done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him.\nAll his experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns\nwhich consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always\nsolve their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept\nhim;--and of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his\nwork he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the\nbottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his\nprospects.\n\nLady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber,\nand there sat thinking through the greater part of the night.\nDuring these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more\noblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not\nbe for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in\nthe midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition.\nAlthough in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments were\nmany,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix\nwould become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour\nto her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, still\nin her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in her\nimagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe which\nmight come. He would go utterly to the dogs and would take her with\nhim. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he\nmight descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whether\nmarried or single she would go with him. Though her reason might be\never so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew,\nwould be stronger than her reason. He was the one thing in the world\nthat overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and\ncontrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight\nthe world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling\nherself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used.\nBut her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it. As it was\nso, could it be fit that she should marry another man?\n\nAnd then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter\nruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should\nthe worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a\nBohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from\nher, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant\nafter a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that.\nA repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to\nher. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially\nhappy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever\npresented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and\nher together,--and Mr. Broune as connected with her and Felix? If\nFelix should go to the dogs, then would Mr. Broune not want her.\nShould Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of\nthe gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she\nwant Mr. Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter.\n\nShe thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this.\nThere was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would only\ncondescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger\nCarbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta\nmust live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but\nHetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did\nnot feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's\npredispositions.\n\nBut she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to\nmarry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better.\nOn that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she\ndeclared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a\ncomfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the\neditor of the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" would be powerful for all\nthings, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince\nherself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still\nvacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with\nassumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps\nabout to be her husband. \"Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?\"\n\n\"Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you\nask, mamma?\"\n\n\"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly\nkind to me as he is.\"\n\n\"He always seems to me to like to have his own way.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't he like it?\"\n\n\"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with\npeople in London;--as though what he said were all said out of\nsurface politeness.\"\n\n\"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people?\nWhy should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr.\nBroune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody,\nyou always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well\nof is Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's\nname if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune,\nhad you not asked me.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nLADY MONOGRAM.\n\n\nGeorgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for\na fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had\nnot much improved. Her brother had troubled her no further, and her\nfamily at Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any\nnotice of Dolly's interference. Twice a week she received a cold,\ndull letter from her mother,--such letters as she had been accustomed\nto receive when away from home; and these she had answered, always\nendeavouring to fill her sheet with some customary description of\nfashionable doings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have\nrepeated for her mother's amusement,--and her own delectation in the\ntelling of it,--had there been nothing painful in the nature of her\nsojourn in London. Of the Melmottes she hardly spoke. She did not\nsay that she was taken to the houses in which it was her ambition to\nbe seen. She would have lied directly in saying so. But she did not\nannounce her own disappointment. She had chosen to come up to the\nMelmottes in preference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not\ndeclare her own failure. \"I hope they are kind to you,\" Lady Pomona\nalways said. But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the\nMelmottes were kind or unkind.\n\nIn truth, her \"season\" was a very unpleasant season. Her mode of\nliving was altogether different to anything she had already known.\nThe house in Bruton Street had never been very bright, but the\nappendages of life there had been of a sort which was not known in\nthe gorgeous mansion in Grosvenor Square. It had been full of books\nand little toys and those thousand trifling household gods which are\naccumulated in years, and which in their accumulation suit themselves\nto the taste of their owners. In Grosvenor Square there were no\nLares;--no toys, no books, nothing but gold and grandeur, pomatum,\npowder and pride. The Longestaffe life had not been an easy, natural,\nor intellectual life; but the Melmotte life was hardly endurable even\nby a Longestaffe. She had, however, come prepared to suffer much,\nand was endowed with considerable power of endurance in pursuit of\nher own objects. Having willed to come, even to the Melmottes, in\npreference to remaining at Caversham, she fortified herself to suffer\nmuch. Could she have ridden in the park at mid-day in desirable\ncompany, and found herself in proper houses at midnight, she would\nhave borne the rest, bad as it might have been. But it was not\nso. She had her horse, but could with difficulty get any proper\ncompanion. She had been in the habit of riding with one of the\nPrimero girls,--and old Primero would accompany them, or perhaps a\nbrother Primero, or occasionally her own father. And then, when once\nout, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young men,--and though\nthere was but little in it, a walking round and round the same bit\nof ground with the same companions and with the smallest attempt at\nconversation, still it had been the proper thing and had satisfied\nher. Now it was with difficulty that she could get any cavalier\nsuch as the laws of society demand. Even Penelope Primero snubbed\nher,--whom she, Georgiana Longestaffe, had hitherto endured and\nsnubbed. She was just allowed to join them when old Primero rode, and\nwas obliged even to ask for that assistance.\n\nBut the nights were still worse. She could only go where Madame\nMelmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive\npeople at home than to go out. And the people she did receive were\nantipathetic to Miss Longestaffe. She did not even know who they\nwere, whence they came, or what was their nature. They seemed to\nbe as little akin to her as would have been the shopkeepers in the\nsmall town near Caversham. She would sit through long evenings almost\nspeechless, trying to fathom the depth of the vulgarity of her\nassociates. Occasionally she was taken out, and was then, probably,\ntaken to very grand houses. The two duchesses and the Marchioness\nof Auld Reekie received Madame Melmotte, and the garden parties of\nroyalty were open to her. And some of the most elaborate fêtes of\nthe season,--which indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and\nthat travelling potentate,--were attained. On these occasions Miss\nLongestaffe was fully aware of the struggle that was always made for\ninvitations, often unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. Even\nthe bargains, conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty\nsister, were not altogether hidden from her. The Emperor of China was\nto be in London and it was thought proper that some private person,\nsome untitled individual, should give the Emperor a dinner, so that\nthe Emperor might see how an English merchant lives. Mr. Melmotte was\nchosen on condition that he would spend £10,000 on the banquet;--and,\nas a part of his payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted\nwith his family, to a grand entertainment given to the Emperor at\nWindsor Park. Of these good things Georgiana Longestaffe would\nreceive her share. But she went to them as a Melmotte and not as a\nLongestaffe,--and when amidst these gaieties, though she could see\nher old friends, she was not with them. She was ever behind Madame\nMelmotte, till she hated the make of that lady's garments and the\nshape of that lady's back.\n\nShe had told both her father and mother very plainly that it behoved\nher to be in London at this time of the year that she might--look for\na husband. She had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and that\npurpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appeared\nto them to be unreasonable. She wanted to be settled in life. She had\nmeant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;--but\nlords are scarce. She was herself not very highly born, not very\nhighly gifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no\nfortune. She had long made up her mind that she could do without a\nlord, but that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. He must\nbe a man with a place in the country and sufficient means to bring\nhim annually to London. He must be a gentleman,--and, probably,\nin parliament. And above all things he must be in the right set.\nShe would rather go on for ever struggling than take some country\nWhitstable as her sister was about to do. But now the men of the\nright sort never came near her. The one object for which she had\nsubjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have vanished\naltogether in the distance. When by chance she danced or exchanged a\nfew words with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs whom she used to know,\nthey spoke to her with a want of respect which she felt and tasted\nbut could hardly analyse. Even Miles Grendall, who had hitherto\nbeen below her notice, attempted to patronise her in a manner that\nbewildered her. All this nearly broke her heart.\n\nAnd then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which made\nher aware that, in the teeth of all Mr. Melmotte's social successes,\na general opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was rather gaining\nground than otherwise. \"Your host is a wonderful fellow, by George!\"\nsaid Lord Nidderdale. \"No one seems to know which way he'll turn up\nat last.\" \"There's nothing like being a robber, if you can only rob\nenough,\" said Lord Grasslough,--not exactly naming Melmotte, but\nvery clearly alluding to him. There was a vacancy for a member of\nparliament at Westminster, and Melmotte was about to come forward\nas a candidate. \"If he can manage that I think he'll pull through,\"\nshe heard one man say. \"If money'll do it, it will be done,\" said\nanother. She could understand it all. Mr. Melmotte was admitted into\nsociety, because of some enormous power which was supposed to lie in\nhis hands; but even by those who thus admitted him he was regarded\nas a thief and a scoundrel. This was the man whose house had been\nselected by her father in order that she might make her search for a\nhusband from beneath his wing!\n\nIn her agony she wrote to her old friend Julia Triplex, now the wife\nof Sir Damask Monogram. She had been really intimate with Julia\nTriplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had been\nachieved. Julia had been without fortune, but very pretty. Sir Damask\nwas a man of great wealth, whose father had been a contractor. But\nSir Damask himself was a sportsman, keeping many horses on which\nother men often rode, a yacht in which other men sunned themselves, a\ndeer forest, a moor, a large machinery for making pheasants. He shot\npigeons at Hurlingham, drove four-in-hand in the park, had a box at\nevery race-course, and was the most good-natured fellow known. He had\nreally conquered the world, had got over the difficulty of being the\ngrandson of a butcher, and was now as good as though the Monograms\nhad gone to the crusades. Julia Triplex was equal to her position,\nand made the very most of it. She dispensed champagne and smiles, and\nmade everybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with\nher husband. Lady Monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and\nin that position had been, of course, invaluable to her old friend.\nWe must give her her due and say that she had been fairly true\nto friendship while Georgiana--behaved herself. She thought that\nGeorgiana in going to the Melmottes had--not behaved herself, and\ntherefore she had determined to drop Georgiana. \"Heartless, false,\npurse-proud creature,\" Georgiana said to herself as she wrote the\nfollowing letter in humiliating agony.\n\n\n   DEAR LADY MONOGRAM,\n\n   I think you hardly understand my position. Of course you\n   have cut me. Haven't you? And of course I must feel it\n   very much. You did not use to be ill-natured, and I hardly\n   think you can have become so now when you have everything\n   pleasant around you. I do not think that I have done\n   anything that should make an old friend treat me in this\n   way, and therefore I write to ask you to let me see you.\n   Of course it is because I am staying here. You know me\n   well enough to be sure that it can't be my own choice.\n   Papa arranged it all. If there is anything against these\n   people, I suppose papa does not know it. Of course they\n   are not nice. Of course they are not like anything that\n   I have been used to. But when papa told me that the house\n   in Bruton Street was to be shut up and that I was to come\n   here, of course I did as I was bid. I don't think an\n   old friend like you, whom I have always liked more than\n   anybody else, ought to cut me for it. It's not about the\n   parties, but about yourself that I mind. I don't ask\n   you to come here, but if you will see me I can have the\n   carriage and will go to you.\n\n   Yours, as ever,\n\n   GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.\n\n\nIt was a troublesome letter to get written. Lady Monogram was\nher junior in age and had once been lower than herself in social\nposition. In the early days of their friendship she had sometimes\ndomineered over Julia Triplex, and had been entreated by Julia, in\nreference to balls here and routes there. The great Monogram marriage\nhad been accomplished very suddenly, and had taken place,--exalting\nJulia very high,--just as Georgiana was beginning to allow her\naspirations to descend. It was in that very season that she moved\nher castle in the air from the Upper to the Lower House. And now she\nwas absolutely begging for notice, and praying that she might not be\ncut! She sent her letter by post and on the following day received a\nreply, which was left by a footman.\n\n\n   DEAR GEORGIANA,\n\n   Of course I shall be delighted to see you. I don't know\n   what you mean by cutting. I never cut anybody. We happen\n   to have got into different sets, but that is not my fault.\n   Sir Damask won't let me call on the Melmottes. I can't\n   help that. You wouldn't have me go where he tells me not.\n   I don't know anything about them myself, except that I did\n   go to their ball. But everybody knows that's different.\n   I shall be at home all to-morrow till three,--that is\n   to-day I mean, for I'm writing after coming home from Lady\n   Killarney's ball; but if you wish to see me alone you had\n   better come before lunch.\n\n   Yours affectionately,\n\n   J. MONOGRAM.\n\n\nGeorgiana condescended to borrow the carriage and reached her\nfriend's house a little after noon. The two ladies kissed each other\nwhen they met--of course, and then Miss Longestaffe at once began.\n\"Julia, I did think that you would at any rate have asked me to your\nsecond ball.\"\n\n\"Of course you would have been asked if you had been up in Bruton\nStreet. You know that as well as I do. It would have been a matter of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"What difference does a house make?\"\n\n\"But the people in a house make a great deal of difference, my dear.\nI don't want to quarrel with you, my dear; but I can't know the\nMelmottes.\"\n\n\"Who asks you?\"\n\n\"You are with them.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house without\nasking everybody that lives with that person? It's done every day.\"\n\n\"Somebody must have brought you.\"\n\n\"I would have come with the Primeros, Julia.\"\n\n\"I couldn't do it. I asked Damask and he wouldn't have it. When that\ngreat affair was going on in February, we didn't know much about the\npeople. I was told that everybody was going and therefore I got Sir\nDamask to let me go. He says now that he won't let me know them; and\nafter having been at their house I can't ask you out of it, without\nasking them too.\"\n\n\"I don't see it at all, Julia.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry, my dear, but I can't go against my husband.\"\n\n\"Everybody goes to their house,\" said Georgiana, pleading her cause\nto the best of her ability. \"The Duchess of Stevenage has dined in\nGrosvenor Square since I have been there.\"\n\n\"We all know what that means,\" replied Lady Monogram.\n\n\"And people are giving their eyes to be asked to the dinner party\nwhich he is to give to the Emperor in July;--and even to the\nreception afterwards.\"\n\n\"To hear you talk, Georgiana, one would think that you didn't\nunderstand anything,\" said Lady Monogram. \"People are going to see\nthe Emperor, not to see the Melmottes. I dare say we might have\ngone,--only I suppose we shan't now because of this row.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by a row, Julia.\"\n\n\"Well;--it is a row, and I hate rows. Going there when the Emperor\nof China is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than going\nto the play. Somebody chooses to get all London into his house, and\nall London chooses to go. But it isn't understood that that means\nacquaintance. I should meet Madame Melmotte in the park afterwards\nand not think of bowing to her.\"\n\n\"I should call that rude.\"\n\n\"Very well. Then we differ. But really it does seem to me that you\nought to understand these things as well as anybody. I don't find any\nfault with you for going to the Melmottes,--though I was very sorry\nto hear it; but when you have done it, I don't think you should\ncomplain of people because they won't have the Melmottes crammed down\ntheir throats.\"\n\n\"Nobody has wanted it,\" said Georgiana sobbing. At this moment\nthe door was opened, and Sir Damask came in. \"I'm talking to your\nwife about the Melmottes,\" she continued, determined to take the\nbull by the horns. \"I'm staying there, and--I think it--unkind that\nJulia--hasn't been--to see me. That's all.\"\n\n\"How'd you do, Miss Longestaffe? She doesn't know them.\" And Sir\nDamask, folding his hands together, raising his eyebrows, and\nstanding on the rug, looked as though he had solved the whole\ndifficulty.\n\n\n[Illustration: Sir Damask solving the difficulty.]\n\n\n\"She knows me, Sir Damask.\"\n\n\"Oh yes;--she knows you. That's a matter of course. We're delighted\nto see you, Miss Longestaffe--I am, always. Wish we could have had\nyou at Ascot. But--.\" Then he looked as though he had again explained\neverything.\n\n\"I've told her that you don't want me to go to the Melmottes,\" said\nLady Monogram.\n\n\"Well, no;--not just to go there. Stay and have lunch, Miss\nLongestaffe.\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"Now you're here, you'd better,\" said Lady Monogram.\n\n\"No, thank you. I'm sorry that I have not been able to make you\nunderstand me. I could not allow our very long friendship to be\ndropped without a word.\"\n\n\"Don't say--dropped,\" exclaimed the baronet.\n\n\"I do say dropped, Sir Damask. I thought we should have understood\neach other;--your wife and I. But we haven't. Wherever she might have\ngone, I should have made it my business to see her; but she feels\ndifferently. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, my dear. If you will quarrel, it isn't my doing.\" Then Sir\nDamask led Miss Longestaffe out, and put her into Madame Melmotte's\ncarriage. \"It's the most absurd thing I ever knew in my life,\" said\nthe wife as soon as her husband had returned to her. \"She hasn't\nbeen able to bear to remain down in the country for one season, when\nall the world knows that her father can't afford to have a house\nfor them in town. Then she condescends to come and stay with these\nabominations and pretends to feel surprised that her old friends\ndon't run after her. She is old enough to have known better.\"\n\n\"I suppose she likes parties,\" said Sir Damask.\n\n\"Likes parties! She'd like to get somebody to take her. It's twelve\nyears now since Georgiana Longestaffe came out. I remember being told\nof the time when I was first entered myself. Yes, my dear, you know\nall about it, I dare say. And there she is still. I can feel for her,\nand do feel for her. But if she will let herself down in that way she\ncan't expect not to be dropped. You remember the woman;--don't you?\"\n\n\"What woman?\"\n\n\"Madame Melmotte?\"\n\n\"Never saw her in my life.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, you did. You took me there that night when Prince ----\ndanced with the girl. Don't you remember the blowsy fat woman at the\ntop of the stairs;--a regular horror?\"\n\n\"Didn't look at her. I was only thinking what a lot of money it all\ncost.\"\n\n\"I remember her, and if Georgiana Longestaffe thinks I'm going\nthere to make an acquaintance with Madame Melmotte she is very much\nmistaken. And if she thinks that that is the way to get married, I\nthink she is mistaken again.\" Nothing perhaps is so efficacious in\npreventing men from marrying as the tone in which married women speak\nof the struggles made in that direction by their unmarried friends.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nJOHN CRUMB.\n\n\nSir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a\nsecond time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's\nAcre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made\nwithout any intention of keeping it. But Ruby was there, and remained\nhanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from\nHarlestone market. An early hour had been named; but hours may be\nmistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was\nher lover, used to live among fine people up in London, might well\nmistake the afternoon for the morning. If he would come at all she\ncould easily forgive such a mistake. But he did not come, and late in\nthe afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he\ncalled her into the house.\n\nAfter that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover,\nbut she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not\naltogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little\nas possible. One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay and\ntold her that her country lover was coming to see her. \"John Crumb\nbe a coming over by-and-by,\" said the old man. \"See and have a bit o'\nsupper ready for him.\"\n\n\"John Crumb coming here, grandfather? He's welcome to stay away then,\nfor me.\"\n\n\"That be dommed.\" The old man thrust his old hat on to his head and\nseated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire.\nWhenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well\nunderstood by Ruby. \"Why not welcome, and he all one as your husband?\nLook ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have an eend o' this. John Crumb is\nto marry you next month, and the banns is to be said.\"\n\n\"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. I can't stop his\nsaying of 'em. It isn't likely I shall try, neither. But no parson\namong 'em all can marry me without I'm willing.\"\n\n\"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?\"\n\n\"You've been a' drinking, grandfather.\"\n\nHe turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her\nhead;--nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which\nshe was well accustomed. She picked it up, and returned it to him\nwith a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. \"Look\nye here, Ruby,\" he said, \"out o' this place you go. If you go as John\nCrumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a\ndinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay.\"\n\n\"Who cares for all Bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing\nbut swilling and smoking;--and John Crumb the main of 'em all? There\nnever was a chap for beer like John Crumb.\"\n\n\"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life.\" And the old\nfarmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon\nthe table.\n\n\"It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills.\nYou can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb. I knows him.\"\n\n\"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? Didn't ye give him a promise?\"\n\n\"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and\nI shan't be the last.\"\n\n\"You means you won't have him?\"\n\n\"That's about it, grandfather.\"\n\n\"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty\nsharp,--for you won't have me.\"\n\n\"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather.\"\n\n\"Very well. He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along\nwi' him. Out o' this ye shall go. I know of your doings.\"\n\n\"What doings! You don't know of no doings. There ain't no doings. You\ndon't know nothing ag'in me.\"\n\n\"He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well\nand good. There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner\nand the dance and all Bungay. He ain't a going to be put off no\nlonger;--he ain't.\"\n\n\"Whoever wanted him to be put on? Let him go his own gait.\"\n\n\"If you can't make it up wi' him--\"\n\n\"Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways.\"\n\n\"Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? There's five hun'erd\npound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk paying\nrent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as\nthat,--let alone only a granddarter. You never thinks o' that;--you\ndon't. If you don't like to take it,--leave it. But you'll leave\nSheep's Acre too.\"\n\n\"Bother Sheep's Acre. Who wants to stop at Sheep's Acre? It's the\nstoopidest place in all England.\"\n\n\"Then find another. Then find another. That's all aboot it. John\nCrumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. You tell him your own mind.\nI'm dommed if I trouble aboot it. On'y you don't stay here. Sheep's\nAcre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home.\nStoopid, is it? You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor\nSheep's Acre, afore you've done.\"\n\nIn regard to the hospitality promised to Mr. Crumb, Miss Ruggles went\nabout her work with sufficient alacrity. She was quite willing that\nthe young man should have a supper, and she did understand that,\nso far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service\nto her grandfather. She therefore went to work herself, and gave\ndirections to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her\ngrandfather's house. But as she did this, she determined that she\nwould make John Crumb understand that she would never be his wife.\nUpon that she was now fully resolved. As she went about the kitchen,\ntaking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled,\nand as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for John Crumb, she\nmade mental comparisons between him and Sir Felix Carbury. She could\nsee, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head\nof the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and\nthe sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright,\nso seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among\nthem. And she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the\nmeal-man, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking\nlike a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the\ncorners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;--and then\nalso she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the\nperfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover. Surely\na lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year,\nwould be well purchased at the price of a life with the other! \"It's\nno good going against love,\" she said to herself, \"and I won't try.\nHe shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home.\nHe cares more for his supper than he do for me.\" And then, with this\nfinal resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot. Her\ngrandfather wanted her to leave Sheep's Acre. Very well. She had a\nlittle money of her own, and would take herself off to London. She\nknew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's\ntales. She would know how to take care of herself, and could always\nsay in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of\nSheep's Acre.\n\nSeven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John\nCrumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house. Nor did\nhe come alone. He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet, the\nbaker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man\nat his marriage. John Crumb's character was not without many fine\nattributes. He could earn money,--and having earned it could spend\nand keep it in fair proportion. He was afraid of no work, and,--to\ngive him his due,--was afraid of no man. He was honest, and ashamed\nof nothing that he did. And after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas\nabout women. He was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman,\nand would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who\nwould misuse a woman belonging to him. But Ruby had told the truth of\nhim in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls\nstupid in regard to all forms of expression. He knew good meal from\nbad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so\nas to leave himself a fair profit at the selling. He knew the value\nof a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for\nhimself that honesty is in truth the best policy. Joe Mixet, who was\ndapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one\nbuying John Crumb for a fool would lose his money. Joe Mixet was\nprobably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of\nworldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed\nmarriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all\nBungay. His love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked\nmuch, whenever he did talk, he talked about that. He was proud of\nRuby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her\nacknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light under a bushel.\nPerhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing Ruby\nagainst the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted. Now when\nhe came to settle the day,--having heard more than once or twice\nthat there was a difficulty with Ruby,--he brought his friend Mixet\nwith him as though to be present at his triumph. \"If here isn't Joe\nMixet,\" said Ruby to herself. \"Was there ever such a stoopid as John\nCrumb? There's no end to his being stoopid.\"\n\nThe old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had been\npreparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests.\n\"What, Joe Mixet; is that thou? Thou'rt welcome. Come in, man. Well,\nJohn, how is it wi' you? Ruby's a stewing o' something for us to\neat a bit. Don't 'e smell it?\"--John Crumb lifted up his great nose,\nsniffed and grinned.\n\n\"John didn't like going home in the dark like,\" said the baker, with\nhis little joke. \"So I just come along to drive away the bogies.\"\n\n\"The more the merrier;--the more the merrier. Ruby 'll have enough\nfor the two o' you, I'll go bail. So John Crumb's afraid of\nbogies;--is he? The more need he to have some 'un in his house to\nscart 'em away.\"\n\nThe lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he was\ninstigated to ask a question. \"Where be she, Muster Ruggles?\" They\nwere seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man\nand his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was at work in the\nback kitchen. As John Crumb asked this question she could be heard\ndistinctly among the pots and the plates. She now came out, and\nwiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men.\nShe had enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking\nwas in hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of\nthis lover. \"Grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your\nsupper, so I've been a seeing to it. You'll excuse the apron, Mr.\nMixet.\"\n\n\"You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so. My\nmother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men.\nWhat do you say, John?\"\n\n\"I loiks to see her loik o' that,\" said John rubbing his hands down\nthe back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyes\ndown to a level with those of his sweetheart.\n\n\n[Illlustration: \"I loiks to see her loik o' that.\"]\n\n\n\"It looks homely; don't it, John?\" said Mixet.\n\n\"Bother!\" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other\nkitchen. John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and\nthen grinned at the old man.\n\n\"You've got it all afore you,\" said the farmer,--leaving the lover to\ndraw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition.\n\n\"And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;--that I don't,\" said\nJohn.\n\n\"That's the chat,\" said Joe Mixet. \"There ain't nothing wanting in\nhis house;--is there, John? It's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and\nthe rest of it. A young woman going to John knows what she'll have to\neat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to\nbed.\" This he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of Ruby in the\nback kitchen.\n\n\"That she do,\" said John, grinning again. \"There's a hun'erd and\nfifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind\nher.\"\n\nAfter this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared with\nthe boiled fowl, and without her apron. She was followed by the girl\nwith a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. Then\nthe old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of\nwhich he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and\nplaced it on the table. And from a cupboard of which he also kept the\nkey, he brought out a bottle of gin. Everything being thus prepared,\nthe three men sat round the table, John Crumb looking at his chair\nagain and again before he ventured to occupy it. \"If you'll sit\nyourself down, I'll give you a bit of something to eat,\" said Ruby\nat last. Then he sank at once into his chair. Ruby cut up the fowl\nstanding, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a\nchair for herself at the table,--and apparently not expected to do\nso, for no one invited her. \"Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr. Crumb?\"\nshe said, when the other two men had helped themselves. He turned\nround and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart\nof an Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and\nbobbed his head at the beer jug. Then she filled it to the brim,\nfrothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed. He\nraised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to\na vat. Then she filled it again. He had been her lover, and she would\nbe as kind to him as she knew how,--short of love.\n\nThere was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and\nanother mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said.\nJohn Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously\npicking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished\nthe second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of\ncabbage. He did not ask for more beer, but took it as often as\nRuby replenished his glass. When the eating was done, Ruby retired\ninto the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some bone or\nmerry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence reserved,\nsharing her spoils however with the other maiden. This she did\nstanding, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes. The men lit\ntheir pipes and smoked in silence, while Ruby went through her\ndomestic duties. So matters went on for half an hour; during which\nRuby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into\nher own room, and formed the grand resolution of going to bed. She\nbegan her operations in fear and trembling, not being sure but that\nher grandfather would bring the man up-stairs to her. As she thought\nof this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door. She knew well\nthat there was no bolt there. It would be terrible to her to be\ninvaded by John Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer. And,\nshe declared to herself, that should he come he would be sure to\nbring Joe Mixet with him to speak his mind for him. So she paused and\nlistened.\n\nWhen they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his\ngranddaughter, but called of course in vain. \"Where the mischief is\nthe jade gone?\" he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen.\nThe maid as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the\nyard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the\nback door. \"The devil's in them. They're off some gates,\" he said\naloud. \"She'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way.\"\nThen he returned to the two young men. \"She's playing off her games\nsomwheres,\" he said. \"Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr. Crumb,\nand I'll see after her.\"\n\n\"I'll just take a drop of y'ell,\" said John Crumb, apparently quite\nunmoved by the absence of his sweetheart.\n\nIt was sad work for the old man. He went down the yard and into the\ngarden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as\nhe did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still\nanxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. He was\nnot bound to give the girl a home at all. She was not his own child.\nAnd he had offered her £500! \"Domm her,\" he said aloud as he made his\nway back to the house. After much search and considerable loss of\ntime he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting,\nleading Ruby in his hand. She was not smart in her apparel, for\nshe had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her\ngrandfather to make herself fit to appear in public. She had\nacknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell John\nCrumb the truth. For she was still determined that she would never be\nJohn Crumb's wife. \"You can answer him as well as I, grandfather,\"\nshe had said. Then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she\nwas an idiot. \"Oh, if it comes to that,\" said Ruby, \"I'm not afraid\nof John Crumb, nor yet of nobody else. Only I didn't think you'd go\nto strike me, grandfather.\" \"I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou\ngoest on this gate,\" he had said. But she had consented to come down,\nand they entered the room together.\n\n\"We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss,\" said Mr. Mixet.\n\n\"It ain't that at all, Mr. Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have\na few friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few\nfriends a deal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do\nfor 'em;--only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes\nand that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves.\"\n\n\"But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby.\"\n\n\"I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr. Mixet. If you and Mr.\nCrumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper--\"\n\n\"Which we ain't,\" said John Crumb very loudly;--\"nor yet for\nbeer;--not by no means.\"\n\n\"We've come for the smiles of beauty,\" said Joe Mixet.\n\nRuby chucked up her head. \"Mr. Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow\nthat! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it\nisn't nothing to you.\"\n\n\"Except in the way of friendship,\" said Mixet.\n\n\"I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be,\" said Mr. Ruggles,\nwho was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head\nforward. \"I won't put up with it no more.\"\n\n\"Who wants you to put up with it?\" said Ruby. \"Who wants 'em to come\nhere with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what\nbusiness Mr. Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere\nalong o' him.\"\n\n\"John Crumb, have you anything to say?\" asked the old man.\n\nThen John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full\nheight. \"I hove,\" said he, swinging his head to one side.\n\n\"Then say it.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said he. He was still standing bolt upright with his hands\ndown by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass which\nwas half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would\nstrengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which\nhe still held in his right hand.\n\n\"Now speak your mind, like a man,\" said Mixet.\n\n\"I intends it,\" said John. But he still stood dumb, looking down upon\nold Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him.\nRuby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes\nintent upon the wall over the fire-place.\n\n\"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you,\nJohn?\" suggested Mixet.\n\n\"I hove.\"\n\n\"And you mean to be as good as your word?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"And she has promised to have you?\"\n\n\"She hove.\"\n\n\"More nor once or twice?\" To this proposition Crumb found it only\nnecessary to bob his head. \"You're ready,--and willing?\"\n\n\"I om.\"\n\n\"You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?\"\n\n\"There ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was.\"\n\n\"Everything is ready in your own house?\"\n\n\"They is.\"\n\n\"And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?\"\n\n\"I sholl.\"\n\n\"That's about it, I think,\" said Joe Mixet, turning to the\ngrandfather. \"I don't think there was ever anything much more\nstraightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all\nabout John Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday,--nor\nyet the day before. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr.\nRuggles.\" Mr. Ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head.\n\"Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has\nwill make things that snug that things never was snugger. But John\nCrumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune.\"\n\n\"Nohow's,\" said the lover, shaking his head and still standing\nupright with his hands by his side.\n\n\"Not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of\nhim. John has a heart in his buzsom.\"\n\n\"I has,\" said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.\n\n\"And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to\nSheep's Acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let\nme make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him,\nand now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb\nhas to say.\"\n\n\"That's what I has to say,\" repeated John Crumb, \"and I means it.\"\n\n\"And now, miss,\" continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, \"you've\nheard what John has to say.\"\n\n\"I've heard you, Mr. Mixet, and I've heard quite enough.\"\n\n\"You can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you? There's\nyour grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted\nout,--and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there\nisn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day.\"\n\n\"Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agon it,\" said John Crumb,\nslapping his thigh.\n\n\"I won't say to-morrow, Mr. Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow,\nnor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as\nmuch before.\"\n\n\"That was only in fun, loike.\"\n\n\"Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal\nof telling.\"\n\n\"You don't mean,--never?\"\n\n\"I do mean never, Mr. Crumb.\"\n\n\"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as\nthe nose on my face?\" John as he asked these questions could hardly\nrefrain from tears.\n\n\"Young women is allowed to change their minds,\" said Ruby.\n\n\"Brute!\" exclaimed old Ruggles. \"Pig! Jade! I'll tell'ee what, John.\nShe'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull. I\nwon't keep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut.\"\n\n\"She ain't that;--she ain't that,\" said John. \"She ain't that at all.\nShe's no slut. I won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather.\nBut, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go\nhome and hang myself.\"\n\n\"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that\nway,\" said the baker.\n\n\"If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you,\nMr. Mixet,\" said Ruby. \"If you hadn't come here at all things might\nhave been different.\"\n\n\"Hark at that now,\" said John, looking at his friend almost with\nindignation.\n\nMr. Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the\nabsolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement\nwere to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this.\nHe put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the\nyard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the\npig-stye wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon as\nMixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of\nhis eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right\nhand as a feeler. \"He's aff now, Ruby,\" said John.\n\n\"And you'd better be aff after him,\" said the cruel girl.\n\n\"And when'll I come back again?\"\n\n\"Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr. Crumb?\"\n\n\"Domm her; domm her,\" said old Ruggles. \"I'll even it to her. She'll\nhave to be out on the roads this night.\"\n\n\"She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it,\" said\nJohn, \"and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her\ntill she sends for me.\"\n\n\"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr. Crumb.\" Old Ruggles\nsat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off\nand putting it on again, and meditating vengeance. \"And now if you\nplease, Mr. Crumb, I'll go up-stairs to my own room.\"\n\n\"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you.\" The old man as he\nsaid this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he would\nhave struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb.\n\n\"Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr. Ruggles.\"\n\n\"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart.\" While her lover held her\ngrandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again\nafraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather.\n\"Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, Mr.\nCrumb?\" said the grandfather appealing to the young man.\n\n\"It's the ways on 'em, Mr. Ruggles.\"\n\n\"Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on\nher. She's been and seen some young buck.\"\n\nThen John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of\nanger flashed from his eyes. \"You ain't a meaning of it, master?\"\n\n\"I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,--him as they call\nthe baronite.\"\n\n\"Been along wi' Ruby?\" The old man nodded at him. \"By the mortials\nI'll baronite him;--I wull,\" said John seizing his hat and stalking\noff through the back kitchen after his friend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nRUBY RUGGLES OBEYS HER GRANDFATHER.\n\n\nThe next day there was great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm, which\ncommunicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and even\naffected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor. Ruby Ruggles had\ngone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmer\nbecame aware of the fact. She had started early, at about seven in\nthe morning; but Ruggles himself had been out long before that, and\nhad not condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house\nfor his breakfast. There had been a bad scene up in the bedroom\novernight, after John Crumb had left the farm. The old man in his\nanger had tried to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the\nbed-post and would not go; and he had been frightened, when the maid\ncame up crying and screaming murder. \"You'll be out o' this to-morrow\nas sure as my name's Dannel Ruggles,\" said the farmer panting for\nbreath. But for the gin which he had taken he would hardly have\nstruck her;--but he had struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and\nknocked her about;--and in the morning she took him at his word and\nwas away. About twelve he heard from the servant girl that she had\ngone. She had packed a box and had started up the road carrying the\nbox herself. \"Grandfather says I'm to go, and I'm gone,\" she had said\nto the girl. At the first cottage she had got a boy to carry her\nbox into Beccles, and to Beccles she had walked. For an hour or two\nRuggles sat, quiet, within the house, telling himself that she might\ndo as she pleased with herself,--that he was well rid of her, and\nthat from henceforth he would trouble himself no more about her. But\nby degrees there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half\nof fear, with perhaps some mixture of love, instigating him to make\nsearch for her. She had been the same to him as a child, and what\nwould people say of him if he allowed her to depart from him after\nthis fashion? Then he remembered his violence the night before, and\nthe fact that the servant girl had heard if she had not seen it.\nHe could not drop his responsibility in regard to Ruby, even if he\nwould. So, as a first step, he sent in a message to John Crumb, at\nBungay, to tell him that Ruby Ruggles had gone off with a box to\nBeccles. John Crumb went open-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and\nall Bungay soon knew that Ruby Ruggles had run away.\n\nAfter sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking,\nand at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. He\nheld a part of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury would\ntell him what he ought to do. A great trouble had come upon him. He\nwould fain have been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his\nterrors all were at work together,--and he found that he could not\neat his dinner. So he had out his cart and horse and drove himself\noff to Carbury Hall.\n\nIt was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated on\nthe terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham,\nthe priest. The old man was shown at once round into the garden, and\nwas not long in telling his story. There had been words between him\nand his granddaughter about her lover. Her lover had been accepted\nand had come to the farm to claim his bride. Ruby had behaved very\nbadly. The old man made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of\ncourse as little as possible of his own violence. But he did explain\nthat there had been threats used when Ruby refused to take the man,\nand that Ruby had, this day, taken herself off.\n\n\"I always thought it was settled they were to be man and wife,\" said\nRoger.\n\n\"It was settled, squoire;--and he war to have five hun'erd pound\ndown;--money as I'd saved myself. Drat the jade.\"\n\n\"Didn't she like him, Daniel?\"\n\n\"She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else.\" Then old\nDaniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of a\nsecret. The squire got up and walked round the garden with him,--and\nthen the secret was told. The farmer was of opinion that there was\nsomething between the girl and Sir Felix. Sir Felix some weeks since\nhad been seen near the farm and on the same occasion Ruby had been\nobserved at some little distance from the house with her best clothes\non.\n\n\"He's been so little here, Daniel,\" said the squire.\n\n\"It goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does,\" said the farmer.\n\"Girls like Ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one such as that,\nthough they'll fall-lall with a man like John Crumb for years.\"\n\n\"I suppose she's gone to London.\"\n\n\"Don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;--only she have\ngone some'eres. May be it's Lowestoffe. There's lots of quality at\nLowestoffe a' washing theyselves in the sea.\"\n\nThen they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be\ncognisant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on\nsuch an occasion as this. \"If she was one of our people,\" said Father\nBarham, \"we should have her back quick enough.\"\n\n\"Would ye now?\" said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and all\nhis family had been brought up as Roman Catholics.\n\n\"I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we\nhave,\" said Carbury.\n\n\"She'd catch herself. Wherever she might be she'd go to the priest,\nand he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way back to\nher friends.\"\n\n\"With a flea in her lug,\" suggested the farmer.\n\n\"Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last\nthing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as a\nfriend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look for\nsympathy.\"\n\n\"She ain't that poor, neither,\" said the grandfather.\n\n\"She had money with her?\"\n\n\"I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor.\nAnd I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. It\nnever was her way.\"\n\n\"It never is the way with a Protestant,\" said the priest.\n\n\"We'll say no more about that for the present,\" said Roger, who was\nwaxing wroth with the priest. That a man should be fond of his own\nreligion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think that\nFather Barham was too fond of his religion. \"What had we better do?\nI suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. There are\nnot so many people leaving Beccles but that she may be remembered.\"\nSo the waggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the\nstation together.\n\nBut before they started John Crumb rode up to the door. He had gone\nat once to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had followed\nthe farmer from thence to Carbury. Now he found the squire and the\npriest and the old man standing around as the horses were being put\nto the carriage. \"Ye ain't a' found her, Mr. Ruggles, ha' ye?\" he\nasked as he wiped the sweat from his brow.\n\n\"Noa;--we ain't a' found no one yet.\"\n\n\"If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr. Carbury, I'd never forgive\nmyself,--never,\" said Crumb.\n\n\"As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend,\" said\nthe squire.\n\n\"In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there last\nnight a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a'\nbeen left alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going\nover to Sheep's Acre. But,--oh!\"\n\n\"What is it, Mr. Crumb?\"\n\n\"He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk,\nI've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your\nbaronite has been and done this! Oh, Mr. Carbury! If I was to wring\nhis neck round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now?\"\nRoger could hardly answer the question. On general grounds the\nwringing of Sir Felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a\nperformance have been what it might, would have seemed to him to be\na good deed. The world would be better, according to his thinking,\nwith Sir Felix out of it than in it. But still the young man was his\ncousin and a Carbury, and to such a one as John Crumb he was bound\nto defend any member of his family as far as he might be defensible.\n\"They says as how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last\nhere, a hiding himself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all.\nThey've gals enough of their own,--them fellows. Why can't they let a\nfellow alone? I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;--if he's\nhad a hand in this.\" Poor John Crumb! When he had his mistress to\nwin he could find no words for himself; but was obliged to take an\neloquent baker with him to talk for him. Now in his anger he could\ntalk freely enough.\n\n\"But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do with\nthis, Mr. Crumb.\"\n\n\"In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as he\ndid it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned!\"-- And John Crumb\nclenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for him\nupon this occasion.\n\nThey all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the Beccles\npost office,--so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as Bungay.\nAt the railway station Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken\na second-class ticket by the morning train for London, and had gone\noff without any appearance of secrecy. She had been decently dressed,\nwith a hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have\nbeen expected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going.\nSo much was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could\nbe learned there. Then a message was sent by telegraph to the station\nin London, and they all waited, loitering about the post office, for\na reply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl\nas was described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her\nbox for her to a cab had gone away for the day. It was believed that\nshe had left the station in a four-wheel cab. \"I'll be arter her.\nI'll be arter her at once,\" said John Crumb. But there was no train\ntill night, and Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do\nany good. It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first step\ntowards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body\nof Sir Felix Carbury. Now it was not at all apparent to the squire\nthat his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. It had been\nmade quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his\ngranddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not\nbecause she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of her\nrefusing to marry John Crumb. John Crumb had gone over to the farm\nexpecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been no\nfear about Felix Carbury. Nor was it possible that there should have\nbeen communication between Ruby and Felix since the quarrel at the\nfarm. Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and the\nbaronet had been acquainted,--and such acquaintance could not but be\nprejudicial to the girl,--not on that account would the baronet be\nresponsible for her abduction. John Crumb was thirsting for blood and\nwas not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter out\ncoolly, and Roger, little as he loved his cousin, was not desirous\nthat all Suffolk should know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed\nwithin an inch of his life by John Crumb of Bungay. \"I'll tell you\nwhat I'll do,\" said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's\nshoulder. \"I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can\ntrace her better than Mr. Crumb can do, and you will both trust me.\"\n\n\"There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon,\" said the old\nman.\n\n\"But you'll let us know the very truth,\" said John Crumb. Roger\nCarbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know\nthe truth. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover\nreturned together to Bungay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nMELMOTTE'S GLORY.\n\n\nAugustus Melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every\ndirection,--mightier and mightier every day. He was learning to\ndespise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over\na duke. In truth he did recognise it as a fact that he must either\ndomineer over dukes, or else go to the wall. It can hardly be said of\nhim that he had intended to play so high a game, but the game that he\nhad intended to play had become thus high of its own accord. A man\ncannot always restrain his own doings and keep them within the limits\nwhich he had himself planned for them. They will very often fall\nshort of the magnitude to which his ambition has aspired. They will\nsometimes soar higher than his own imagination. So it had now been\nwith Mr. Melmotte. He had contemplated great things; but the things\nwhich he was achieving were beyond his contemplation.\n\nThe reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in\nEngland. Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. He\nhad never read a book. He had never written a line worth reading.\nHe had never said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had\nsprung out of some Californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own\nfather and mother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength\nof his own audacity. But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give\nthe necessary impetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into\nalmost unprecedented commercial greatness. When Mr. Melmotte took his\noffices in Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing\nso great as when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had\nbecome not only an established fact, but a fact established in\nAbchurch Lane. The great company indeed had an office of its own,\nwhere the Board was held; but everything was really managed in\nMr. Melmotte's own commercial sanctum. Obeying, no doubt, some\ninscrutable law of commerce, the grand enterprise,--\"perhaps the\ngrandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which\nhas ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people,\"\nas Mr. Fisker with his peculiar eloquence observed through his nose,\nabout this time to a meeting of shareholders at San Francisco,--had\nswung itself across from California to London, turning itself to the\ncentre of the commercial world as the needle turns to the pole, till\nMr. Fisker almost regretted the deed which himself had done. And\nMelmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of\nit all. The shares seemed to be all in Melmotte's pocket, so that\nhe could distribute them as he would; and it seemed also that when\ndistributed and sold, and when bought again and sold again, they came\nback to Melmotte's pocket. Men were contented to buy their shares and\nto pay their money, simply on Melmotte's word. Sir Felix had realised\na large portion of his winnings at cards,--with commendable prudence\nfor one so young and extravagant,--and had brought his savings to the\ngreat man. The great man had swept the earnings of the Beargarden\ninto his till, and had told Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir\nFelix had been not only contented, but supremely happy. He could now\ndo as Paul Montague was doing,--and Lord Alfred Grendall. He could\nrealize a perennial income, buying and selling. It was only after\nthe reflection of a day or two that he found that he had as yet got\nnothing to sell. It was not only Sir Felix that was admitted into\nthese good things after this fashion. Sir Felix was but one among\nhundreds. In the meantime the bills in Grosvenor Square were no doubt\npaid with punctuality,--and these bills must have been stupendous.\nThe very servants were as tall, as gorgeous, almost as numerous, as\nthe servants of royalty,--and remunerated by much higher wages. There\nwere four coachmen with egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one\nwith a circumference of calf less than eighteen inches.\n\nAnd now there appeared a paragraph in the \"Morning Breakfast Table,\"\nand another appeared in the \"Evening Pulpit,\" telling the world\nthat Mr. Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex\nproperty of Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq., of Caversham. And it was so.\nThe father and son who never had agreed before, and who now had come\nto no agreement in the presence of each other, had each considered\nthat their affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as\nMr. Melmotte, and had been brought to terms. The purchase-money,\nwhich was large, was to be divided between them. The thing was done\nwith the greatest ease,--there being no longer any delay as is the\ncase when small people are at work. The magnificence of Mr. Melmotte\naffected even the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy a little\nproperty, some humble cottage with a garden,--or you, O reader,\nunless you be magnificent,--the money to the last farthing would be\nwanted, or security for the money more than sufficient, before we\nshould be able to enter in upon our new home. But money was the very\nbreath of Melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for\nmoney. Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London builder\nhad collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at Chichester,\nand was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for\nMadame Melmotte. There were rumours that it was to be made ready for\nthe Goodwood week, and that the Melmotte entertainment during that\nfestival would rival the duke's.\n\nBut there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood\nweek should come round in all of which Mr. Melmotte was concerned,\nand of much of which Mr. Melmotte was the very centre. A member for\nWestminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated.\nIt was considered to be indispensable to the country that Mr.\nMelmotte should go into Parliament, and what constituency could such\na man as Melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as Westminster\ndoes all the essences of the metropolis? There was the popular\nelement, the fashionable element, the legislative element, the legal\nelement, and the commercial element. Melmotte undoubtedly was the man\nfor Westminster. His thorough popularity was evinced by testimony\nwhich perhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for\nany county or borough. In Westminster there must of course be a\ncontest. A seat for Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by\neither political party without a struggle. But, at the beginning of\nthe affair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate\nwhich the country could supply, each party put its hand upon\nMelmotte. And when the seat, and the battle for the seat, were\nsuggested to Melmotte, then for the first time was that great man\nforced to descend from the altitudes on which his mind generally\ndwelt, and to decide whether he would enter Parliament as a\nConservative or a Liberal. He was not long in convincing himself that\nthe Conservative element in British Society stood the most in need\nof that fiscal assistance which it would be in his province to give;\nand on the next day every hoarding in London declared to the world\nthat Melmotte was the Conservative candidate for Westminster. It is\nneedless to say that his committee was made up of peers, bankers, and\npublicans, with all that absence of class prejudice for which the\nparty has become famous since the ballot was introduced among us.\nSome unfortunate Liberal was to be made to run against him, for the\nsake of the party; but the odds were ten to one on Melmotte.\n\nThis no doubt was a great matter,--this affair of the seat; but the\ndinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It was\nthe middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on Monday, 8th\nJuly, now three weeks hence;--but all London was already talking of\nit. The great purport proposed was to show to the Emperor by this\nbanquet what an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of\ncourse there was a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the\noccasion. Some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London,\nothers that he was not a merchant, others again that he was not an\nEnglishman. But no man could deny that he was both able and willing\nto spend the necessary money; and as this combination of ability and\nwill was the chief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement\ncould only storm and scold. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were\nat work, throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and\ngenerally transmuting the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion\nthat two hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the\ndining-room of a British merchant.\n\nBut who were to be the two hundred? It used to be the case that when\na gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;--but when affairs\nbecome great, society can hardly be carried on after that simple\nfashion. The Emperor of China could not be made to sit at table\nwithout English royalty, and English royalty must know whom it has to\nmeet,--must select at any rate some of its comrades. The minister of\nthe day also had his candidates for the dinner,--in which arrangement\nthere was however no private patronage, as the list was confined to\nthe cabinet and their wives. The Prime Minister took some credit to\nhimself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a private\nfriend. But the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats.\nMelmotte had elected to stand for Westminster on the Conservative\ninterest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were\na Conservative cabinet present, with its Conservative wives. He was\ntold that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment\nof the debt. But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants.\nThis was to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential\nthat the Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants\nat the merchant's board. No doubt the Emperor would see all the\nmerchants at the Guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair,\npaid for out of the funds of a corporation. This was to be a private\ndinner. Now the Lord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was\nto be done? Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant\nguests were selected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen\nwives;--and subsequently the Lord Mayor was made a baronet on the\noccasion of receiving the Emperor in the city. The Emperor with his\nsuite was twenty. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest\nand wife. The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was\nnumbered at about eleven only;--each one for self and wife. Five\nambassadors and five ambassadresses were to be asked. There were to\nbe fifteen real merchants out of the city. Ten great peers,--with\ntheir peeresses,--were selected by the general committee of\nmanagement. There were to be three wise men, two poets, three\nindependent members of the House of Commons, two Royal Academicians,\nthree editors of papers, an African traveller who had just come home,\nand a novelist;--but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come\nas bachelors. Three tickets were to be kept over for presentation\nto bores endowed with a power of making themselves absolutely\nunendurable if not admitted at the last moment,--and ten were left\nfor the giver of the feast and his own family and friends. It is\noften difficult to make things go smooth,--but almost all roughnesses\nmay be smoothed at last with patience and care, and money and\npatronage.\n\nBut the dinner was not to be all. Eight hundred additional tickets\nwere to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and\nthe fight for these was more internecine than for seats at the\ndinner. The dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a\nfashion that there was not much visible fighting about them. Royalty\nmanages its affairs quietly. The existing Cabinet was existing, and\nthough there were two or three members of it who could not have got\nthemselves elected at a single unpolitical club in London, they had a\nright to their seats at Melmotte's table. What disappointed ambition\nthere might be among Conservative candidates was never known to the\npublic. Those gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public.\nThe ambassadors of course were quiet, but we may be sure that the\nMinister from the United States was among the favoured five. The\ncity bankers and bigwigs, as has been already said, were at first\nunwilling to be present, and therefore they who were not chosen could\nnot afterwards express their displeasure. No grumbling was heard\namong the peers, and that which came from the peeresses floated down\ninto the current of the great fight about the evening entertainment.\nThe poet laureate was of course asked, and the second poet was as\nmuch a matter of course. Only two Academicians had in this year\npainted royalty, so that there was no ground for jealousy there.\nThere were three, and only three, specially insolent and specially\ndisagreeable independent members of Parliament at that time in the\nHouse, and there was no difficulty in selecting them. The wise men\nwere chosen by their age. Among editors of newspapers there was some\nill-blood. That Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune should be selected was almost\na matter of course. They were hated accordingly, but still this was\nexpected. But why was Mr. Booker there? Was it because he had praised\nthe Prime Minister's translation of Catullus? The African traveller\nchose himself by living through all his perils and coming home. A\nnovelist was selected; but as royalty wanted another ticket at the\nlast moment, the gentleman was only asked to come in after dinner.\nHis proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and he joined\namicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festival\naltogether.\n\nWe should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story\nwere we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the\nfeud as it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right\nto indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning\npassion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could\nnot be indulged. The value of the privilege was so great that Madame\nMelmotte thought that she was doing almost more than friendship\ncalled for when she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that\nunfortunately there would be no seat for her at the dinner-table;\nbut that, as payment for her loss, she should receive an evening\nticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife.\nGeorgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted the compromise.\nWhat she did with her tickets shall be hereafter told.\n\nFrom all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr. Melmotte of\nthe present hour was a very different man from that Mr. Melmotte who\nwas introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle.\nRoyalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without\nhis being allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to\ncatch a simple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord\nAlfred when he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic\ntwinges. He was only too anxious to make himself more and more\nnecessary to the great man. It is true that all this came as it were\nby jumps, so that very often a part of the world did not know on what\nledge in the world the great man was perched at that moment. Miss\nLongestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how\ngreat a man her host was. Lady Monogram when she refused to go to\nGrosvenor Square, or even to allow any one to come out of the house\nin Grosvenor Square to her parties, was groping in outer darkness.\nMadame Melmotte did not know. Marie Melmotte did not know. The\ngreat man did not quite know himself where, from time to time, he\nwas standing. But the world at large knew. The world knew that Mr.\nMelmotte was to be Member for Westminster, that Mr. Melmotte was to\nentertain the Emperor of China, that Mr. Melmotte carried the South\nCentral Pacific and Mexican Railway in his pocket;--and the world\nworshipped Mr. Melmotte.\n\nIn the meantime Mr. Melmotte was much troubled about his private\naffairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he\nrose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this\nmarriage,--not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be\nultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand a\nyear was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twenty\nthousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six months\nafter the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum\nat once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept\nwaiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish for\nthem a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the young\npeople were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a week\nor so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papers\nthat Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides that\nNidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money\nwas not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then,\nat that time, Melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable\ntower of commerce, the very navel of the commercial enterprise of\nthe world,--as all men now regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and\nNidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content\nwith a very much less stringent bargain than that which they had\nendeavoured at first to exact.\n\nBut, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented\nat her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some\nspeechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and\nher father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father\nscowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no\nconcern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, and\nhimself fixed some day in August for the wedding. \"It is no use,\nfather, for I will never have him,\" said Marie.\n\n\"Is it about that other scamp?\" he asked angrily.\n\n\"If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to you\nand told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue.\"\n\n\"You'll both starve, my lady; that's all.\" Marie however was not so\nwedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as\nto be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to\nsuffer if married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any\nlong discussion. As he left her he took hold of her and shook her.\n\"By ----,\" he said, \"if you run rusty after all I've done for you,\nI'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't\nthe price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only\nfor what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants\nmoney, not you, you little fool!\"\n\nBut after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale\nspoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off;--and\nnow the young nobleman, having settled everything with the father,\nexpected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl.\nHe was not very skilful at making love,--but he was thoroughly\ngood-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give\npain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and\nhardly any kindness which he would not do,--so that the labour upon\nhimself was not too great. \"Well, Miss Melmotte,\" he said; \"governors\nare stern beings: are they not?\"\n\n\"Is yours stern, my lord?\"\n\n\"What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think\nyou understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time\nbefore; I was indeed.\"\n\n\"I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and I\ncan't marry without leave from the governors.\"\n\n\"Nor with it,\" said Marie, nodding her head.\n\n\"I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere,--I\ndon't quite know where.\"--The hitch had been with himself, as he\ndemanded ready money. \"But it's all right now. The old fellows are\nagreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?\"\n\n\"No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that?\"\n\n\"I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it.\nI have seen more of things since then.\"\n\n\"And you've seen somebody you like better than me?\"\n\n\"I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought\nto blame me, my lord.\"\n\n\"Oh dear no.\"\n\n\"There was something before, but it was you that was off first.\nWasn't it now?\"\n\n\"The governors were off, I think.\"\n\n\"The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think\nany governor has a right to make anybody marry any one.\"\n\n\"I agree with you there;--I do indeed,\" said Lord Nidderdale.\n\n\"And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal about\nit since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine.\"\n\n\"But I don't know why you shouldn't--just marry me--because you--like\nme.\"\n\n\"Only,--just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"Thanks;--so much!\"\n\n\"I like you ever so,--only marrying a person is different.\"\n\n\"There's something in that to be sure.\"\n\n\"And I don't mind telling you,\" said Marie with an almost solemn\nexpression on her countenance, \"because you are good-natured and\nwon't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like\nsomebody else;--oh, so much.\"\n\n\"I supposed that was it.\"\n\n\"That is it.\"\n\n\"It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we\nshould have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things\nyou go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit,\nthere would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think\nof it again?\"\n\n\"I tell you, my lord, I'm--in love.\"\n\n\"Oh, ah;--yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. I\nshall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket.\" And so\nNidderdale took his dismissal, and went away,--not however without an\nidea that the marriage would still come off. There was always,--so he\nthought,--such a bother about things before they would get themselves\nfixed. This happened some days after Mr. Broune's proposal to Lady\nCarbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as\nLord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that\nshe might hear from him,--and entrusted her letter to Didon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nMR. BROUNE'S PERILS.\n\n\nLady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr. Broune's\nproposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her\npromise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the\nWednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day\nher letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and\nshe had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to\nbe much guided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she\nwas always influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary\ntrouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would\nonly accept it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue\nto add herself to the family burden. She never said this even\nto herself,--but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to\nconsult Hetta's comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her\ndaughter said had its effect. She had encountered the troubles of\none marriage, and they had been very bad. She did not look upon that\nmarriage as a mistake,--having even up to this day a consciousness\nthat it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl,\nto obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and\nservility. But that had been done. The maintenance was, indeed, again\ndoubtful, because of her son's vices; but it might so probably be\nagain secured,--by means of her son's beauty! Hetta had said that\nMr. Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men\nliked their own way? And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort\nof a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship\nof a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the\nman! And added to all this there was something within her, almost\namounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that\nshe should burden any one with the responsibility and inevitable\ntroubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her\nhusband to command her to separate herself from her son? In such\ncircumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband.\nHaving considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr.\nBroune:--\n\n\n   DEAREST FRIEND,\n\n   I need not tell you that I have thought much of your\n   generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such\n   a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard\n   your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can\n   achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I\n   cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have\n   asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject\n   to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so\n   wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart\n   whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been\n   so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which\n   I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be\n   described;--and yet with you I would have no reticence.\n   I would put the whole history before you to read, with all\n   my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all\n   my fears,--with every circumstance as it has passed by and\n   every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor\n   tale would be too long for your patience. The result of it\n   would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter\n   in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of\n   sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.\n\n   I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could\n   I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would now\n   become your wife. But I shall never marry again.\n\n   Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend,\n\n   MATILDA CARBURY.\n\n\nAbout six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to\nMr. Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile\nalone,--full of regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing\nwhich would certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at\nthis moment she was in debt,--and did not know how to pay her debts\nwithout mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff on\nwhich she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would\nsit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the\npress, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical\ndetails, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem\nto be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's\nhorses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about\nthe marriage. As regarded herself, Mr. Broune would have made her\nsecure,--but that now was all over. Poor woman! This at any rate may\nbe said for her,--that had she accepted the man her regrets would\nhave been as deep.\n\nMr. Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of\nthe lady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet\nfrom the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That\ngently sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described\nhim to herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of\nMr. Broune's character which showed itself in this matter. He was\na susceptible old goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without\nobjection, the kissing might probably have gone on; and, whatever\nmight have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage.\nHe had believed that her little manoeuvres had indicated love on her\npart, and he had felt himself constrained to reciprocate the passion.\nShe was beautiful in his eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes\nlike a lady; and,--if it was written in the Book of the Fates that\nsome lady was to sit at the top of his table,--Lady Carbury would\nlook as well there as any other. She had repudiated the kiss, and\ntherefore he had felt himself bound to obtain for himself the right\nto kiss her.\n\nThe offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in,\ndrunk, at the front door. As he made his escape the lad had insulted\nhim. This, perhaps, helped to open his eyes. When he woke the next\nmorning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, he\nwas no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with\nhim. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that\nfirst matutinal retrospection, and pro-spection, into things as they\nhave been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of\nhope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done,\nsome word ill-spoken, some money misspent,--or perhaps a cigar too\nmuch, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left\nuntasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comforts\nhimself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all\nover, teres atque rotundus,--so to have managed his little affairs\nthat he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! Mr.\nBroune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the\ncourse of his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the\nhabit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about\nnoon,--for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four\nor five in the morning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not\nbalance his sheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he\nfeared that he had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of\ntea with which his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he\ncould not say of himself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do\nwhen things were well with him. Everything was to be changed. As he\nlit a cigarette he bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like\nhim to smoke in her bedroom. Then he remembered other things. \"I'll\nbe d---- if he shall live in my house,\" he said to himself.\n\nAnd there was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that his\noffer could be refused. During the whole of that day he went about\namong his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappish\nuncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with about\nfifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he did not speak a\nword to any man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in\nTrafalgar Square at which he did his nightly work. Here he was lapped\nin comforts,--if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and\nof reading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightly\nthirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himself\nresponsible for their contents.\n\nHe seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw Lady\nCarbury's letter on the table before him. It was his custom when he\ndid not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at his\noffice as had reached his home during his absence;--and here was\nLady Carbury's letter. He knew her writing well, and was aware that\nhere was the confirmation of his fate. It had not been expected, as\nshe had given herself another day for her answer,--but here it was,\nbeneath his hand. Surely this was almost unfeminine haste. He chucked\nthe letter, unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his\nattention on some printed slip that was ready for him. For some ten\nminutes his eyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his\nmind did not follow what he was reading. He struggled again, but\nstill his thoughts were on the letter. He did not wish to open it,\nhaving some vague idea that, till the letter should have been read,\nthere was a chance of escape. The letter would not become due to be\nread till the next day. It should not have been there now to tempt\nhis thoughts on this night. But he could do nothing while it lay\nthere. \"It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall never have to\nsee him,\" he said to himself, as he opened it. The second line told\nhim that the danger was over.\n\nWhen he had read so far he stood up with his back to the fire-place,\nleaving the letter on the table. Then, after all, the woman wasn't in\nlove with him! But that was a reading of the affair which he could\nhardly bring himself to look upon as correct. The woman had shown\nher love by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she\nnow had her triumph. A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a\nman,--and more especially when she does so at a certain time of life.\nWould she publish her triumph? Mr. Broune would not like to have it\nknown about among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he\nhad offered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady Carbury had refused\nhim. He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not\nin proportion to the bitterness of his late fears.\n\nHe could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! As\nhe reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed\naway from him. Full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still\nstood upon the rug, before he read the entire letter. \"'Cut and\nscotched and lopped!' I suppose she has been,\" he said to himself. He\nhad heard much of Sir Patrick, and knew well that the old general had\nbeen no lamb. \"I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped\nher.\" When he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon\nhim gradually a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had\never yet felt,--and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would\nrenew his offer to her. \"'Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy\ninstead of mirth,'\" he repeated to himself. \"I should have done the\nbest for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were\nnecessary.\"\n\nHe went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without\nthat dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the\nroom. Gradually, through the night, he realised the conviction that\nhe had escaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating\nhis offer. Before he left he wrote her a line--\n\n\n   Be it so. It need not break our friendship.\n\n   N. B.\n\n\nThis he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to his\nlodgings long before he was up on the following morning.\n\n\n   No;--no; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my\n   mouth.\n\n   M. C.\n\n\nMr. Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and\nresolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that his\nfriendship could do for her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nTHE BOARD-ROOM.\n\n\nOn Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific\nand Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was\nthe Board's custom every Friday. On this occasion all the members\nwere there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make\na special statement. There was the great chairman as a matter of\ncourse. In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never\nthrew over the railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands\nthose cares which the commercial world had intrusted to his own. Lord\nAlfred was there, with Mr. Cohenlupe, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul\nMontague, and Lord Nidderdale,--and even Sir Felix Carbury. Sir Felix\nhad come, being very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having\nhad an opportunity of realising his golden hopes, although he had\nactually paid a thousand pounds in hard money into Mr. Melmotte's\nhands. The secretary, Mr. Miles Grendall, was also present as a\nmatter of course. The Board always met at three, and had generally\nbeen dissolved at a quarter past three. Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe\nsat at the chairman's right and left hand. Paul Montague generally\nsat immediately below, with Miles Grendall opposite to him;--but on\nthis occasion the young lord and the young baronet took the next\nplaces. It was a nice little family party, the great chairman with\nhis two aspiring sons-in-law, his two particular friends,--the social\nfriend, Lord Alfred, and the commercial friend Mr. Cohenlupe,--and\nMiles, who was Lord Alfred's son. It would have been complete\nin its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who had lately made\nhimself disagreeable to Mr. Melmotte;--and most ungratefully so, for\ncertainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the shares as the\nyounger member of the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.\n\n\n[Illustration: The Board-room.]\n\n\nIt was understood that Mr. Melmotte was to make a statement. Lord\nNidderdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done as\nit were out of the great man's own heart, of his own wish, so that\nsomething of the condition of the company might be made known to the\ndirectors of the company. But this was not perhaps exactly the truth.\nPaul Montague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the\nlast meeting but one, and, having made himself very disagreeable\nindeed, had forced this trouble on the great chairman. On the\nintermediate Friday the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to\nPaul, and this had seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten\nthe inimical director out of his opposition, so that the promise of\na statement need not be fulfilled. What nuisance can be so great to\na man busied with immense affairs, as to have to explain,--or to\nattempt to explain,--small details to men incapable of understanding\nthem? But Montague had stood to his guns. He had not intended, he\nsaid, to dispute the commercial success of the company. But he felt\nvery strongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel\nas strongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than\nthey did know. Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least\nagree with his brother director. \"If anybody don't understand, it's\nhis own fault,\" said Mr. Cohenlupe. But Paul would not give way, and\nit was understood that Mr. Melmotte would make a statement.\n\nThe \"Boards\" were always commenced by the reading of a certain record\nof the last meeting out of a book. This was always done by Miles\nGrendall; and the record was supposed to have been written by him.\nBut Montague had discovered that this statement in the book was\nalways prepared and written by a satellite of Melmotte's from\nAbchurch Lane who was never present at the meeting. The adverse\ndirector had spoken to the secretary,--it will be remembered that\nthey were both members of the Beargarden,--and Miles had given a\nsomewhat evasive reply. \"A cussed deal of trouble and all that, you\nknow! He's used to it, and it's what he's meant for. I'm not going\nto flurry myself about stuff of that kind.\" Montague after this had\nspoken on the subject both to Nidderdale and Felix Carbury. \"He\ncouldn't do it, if it was ever so,\" Nidderdale had said. \"I don't\nthink I'd bully him if I were you. He gets £500 a-year, and if you\nknew all he owes, and all he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him\nof it.\" With Felix Carbury Montague had as little success. Sir Felix\nhated the secretary, had detected him cheating at cards, had resolved\nto expose him,--and had then been afraid to do so. He had told Dolly\nLongestaffe, and the reader will perhaps remember with what effect.\nHe had not mentioned the affair again, and had gradually fallen back\ninto the habit of playing at the club. Loo, however, had given way to\nwhist, and Sir Felix had satisfied himself with the change. He still\nmeditated some dreadful punishment for Miles Grendall, but, in the\nmeantime, felt himself unable to oppose him at the Board. Since the\nday at which the aces had been manipulated at the club he had not\nspoken to Miles Grendall except in reference to the affairs of the\nwhist-table. The \"Board\" was now commenced as usual. Miles read the\nshort record out of the book,--stumbling over every other word, and\ngoing through the performance so badly that had there been anything\nto understand no one could have understood it. \"Gentlemen,\" said\nMr. Melmotte, in his usual hurried way, \"is it your pleasure that I\nshall sign the record?\" Paul Montague rose to say that it was not his\npleasure that the record should be signed. But Melmotte had made his\nscrawl, and was deep in conversation with Mr. Cohenlupe before Paul\ncould get upon his legs.\n\nMelmotte, however, had watched the little struggle. Melmotte,\nwhatever might be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to hear. He\nperceived that Montague had made a little struggle and had been\ncowed; and he knew how hard it is for one man to persevere against\nfive or six, and for a young man to persevere against his elders.\nNidderdale was filliping bits of paper across the table at Carbury.\nMiles Grendall was poring over the book which was in his charge.\nLord Alfred sat back in his chair, the picture of a model director,\nwith his right hand within his waistcoat. He looked aristocratic,\nrespectable, and almost commercial. In that room he never by any\nchance opened his mouth, except when called on to say that Mr.\nMelmotte was right, and was considered by the chairman really to\nearn his money. Melmotte for a minute or two went on conversing with\nCohenlupe, having perceived that Montague for the moment was cowed.\nThen Paul put both his hands upon the table, intending to rise and\nask some perplexing question. Melmotte saw this also and was upon\nhis legs before Montague had risen from his chair. \"Gentlemen,\" said\nMr. Melmotte, \"it may perhaps be as well if I take this occasion of\nsaying a few words to you about the affairs of the company.\" Then,\ninstead of going on with his statement, he sat down again, and began\nto turn over sundry voluminous papers very slowly, whispering a word\nor two every now and then to Mr. Cohenlupe. Lord Alfred never changed\nhis posture and never took his hand from his breast. Nidderdale and\nCarbury filliped their paper pellets backwards and forwards. Montague\nsat profoundly listening,--or ready to listen when anything should\nbe said. As the chairman had risen from his chair to commence his\nstatement, Paul felt that he was bound to be silent. When a speaker\nis in possession of the floor, he is in possession even though he be\nsomewhat dilatory in looking to his references, and whispering to\nhis neighbour. And, when that speaker is a chairman, of course some\nadditional latitude must be allowed to him. Montague understood this,\nand sat silent. It seemed that Melmotte had much to say to Cohenlupe,\nand Cohenlupe much to say to Melmotte. Since Cohenlupe had sat at the\nBoard he had never before developed such powers of conversation.\n\nNidderdale didn't quite understand it. He had been there twenty\nminutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to\nhit Carbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the Beargarden\nwould now be open. He was no respecter of persons, and had got over\nany little feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity\nof the room may have first inspired him. \"I suppose that's about\nall,\" he said, looking up at Melmotte.\n\n\"Well;--perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here\nis engaged elsewhere,\"--turning round to Lord Alfred, who had not\nuttered a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat,--\"we\nhad better adjourn this meeting for another week.\"\n\n\"I cannot allow that,\" said Paul Montague.\n\n\"I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board,\" said the\nChairman.\n\n\"I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and\nChairman,\" said Cohenlupe, \"and I must say that it is not expedient\njust at present to go into matters too freely.\"\n\n\"My lords and gentlemen,\" said Melmotte. \"I hope that you trust me.\"\n\nLord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which was\nintended to convey most absolute confidence. \"Hear, hear,\" said Mr.\nCohenlupe. \"All right,\" said Lord Nidderdale; \"go on;\" and he fired\nanother pellet with improved success.\n\n\"I trust,\" said the Chairman, \"that my young friend, Sir Felix,\ndoubts neither my discretion nor my ability.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no;--not at all,\" said the baronet, much flattered at being\naddressed in this kindly tone. He had come there with objects of his\nown, and was quite prepared to support the Chairman on any matter\nwhatever.\n\n\"My Lords and Gentlemen,\" continued Melmotte, \"I am delighted to\nreceive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in the\nworld I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell you\nthat we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has\never been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think\nour friend here, Mr. Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that\nas any gentleman.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that, Mr. Melmotte?\" asked Paul.\n\n\"What do I mean?--Certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir.\nYour firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of\nthe Company are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt\nyou are in correspondence with Mr. Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph\nwires are open to you, sir. But, my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able\nto inform you that in affairs of this nature great discretion is\nnecessary. On behalf of the shareholders at large whose interests\nare in our hands, I think it expedient that any general statement\nshould be postponed for a short time, and I flatter myself that in\nthat opinion I shall carry the majority of this Board with me.\" Mr.\nMelmotte did not make his speech very fluently; but, being accustomed\nto the place which he occupied, he did manage to get the words spoken\nin such a way as to make them intelligible to the company. \"I now\nmove that this meeting be adjourned to this day week,\" he added.\n\n\"I second that motion,\" said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand\nfrom his breast.\n\n\"I understood that we were to have a statement,\" said Montague.\n\n\"You've had a statement,\" said Mr. Cohenlupe.\n\n\"I will put my motion to the vote,\" said the Chairman.\n\n\"I shall move an amendment,\" said Paul, determined that he would not\nbe altogether silenced.\n\n\"There is nobody to second it,\" said Mr. Cohenlupe.\n\n\"How do you know till I've made it?\" asked the rebel. \"I shall ask\nLord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I think that\nhe will not refuse.\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious me! why me? No;--don't ask me. I've got to go away. I\nhave indeed.\"\n\n\"At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not say\nwhether every affair of this Company should or should not be\npublished to the world.\"\n\n\"You'd break up everything if you did,\" said Cohenlupe.\n\n\"Perhaps everything ought to be broken up. But I say nothing about\nthat. What I do say is this. That as we sit here as directors and\nwill be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to\nknow what is being done. We ought to know where the shares really\nare. I for one do not even know what scrip has been issued.\"\n\n\"You've bought and sold enough to know something about it,\" said\nMelmotte.\n\nPaul Montague became very red in the face. \"I, at any rate, began,\"\nhe said, \"by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the\naffair.\"\n\n\"That's more than I know,\" said Melmotte. \"Whatever shares you have,\nwere issued at San Francisco, and not here.\"\n\n\"I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for,\" said Montague. \"Nor\nhave I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares\nwhich my capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my\nown concerns.\"\n\n\"It looks very like it,\" said Cohenlupe.\n\n\"So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of\neverything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is being\ndone with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large\nthat I, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth know\nanything about it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from further\nresponsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right from this time\nforward,--and that course I intend to take.\"\n\n\"The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board,\" said\nMelmotte. \"There will be no difficulty about that.\"\n\n\"Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear that\nthere will be difficulty.\"\n\n\"Not in the least,\" continued the Chairman. \"You need only gazette\nyour resignation and the thing is done. I had intended, gentlemen, to\npropose an addition to our number. When I name to you a gentleman,\npersonally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout\nEngland as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of\nfortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I\nmean Mr. Longestaffe of Caversham--\"\n\n\"Young Dolly, or old?\" asked Lord Nidderdale.\n\n\"I mean Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham. I am sure\nthat you will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought\nto strengthen our number by this addition. But if Mr. Montague\nis determined to leave us,--and no one will regret the loss of\nhis services so much as I shall,--it will be my pleasing duty to\nmove that Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be\nrequested to take his place. If on reconsideration Mr. Montague shall\ndetermine to remain with us,--and I for one most sincerely hope that\nsuch reconsideration may lead to such determination,--then I shall\nmove that an additional director be added to our number, and that\nMr. Longestaffe be requested to take the chair of that additional\ndirector.\" The latter speech Mr. Melmotte got through very glibly,\nand then immediately left the chair, so as to show that the business\nof the Board was closed for that day without any possibility of\nreopening it.\n\nPaul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he\nwished to speak to him before they parted. \"Certainly,\" said the\ngreat man bowing. \"Carbury,\" he said, looking round on the young\nbaronet with his blandest smile, \"if you are not in a hurry, wait a\nmoment for me. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr.\nMontague, what can I do for you?\" Paul began his story, expressing\nagain the opinion which he had already very plainly expressed at the\ntable. But Melmotte stopped him very shortly, and with much less\ncourtesy than he had shown in the speech which he had made from the\nchair. \"The thing is about this way, I take it, Mr. Montague;--you\nthink you know more of this matter than I do.\"\n\n\"Not at all, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may\nbe right. But as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the\nless we speak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest\nin the threat you made, because you would be making public things\ncommunicated to you under the seal of privacy,--and no gentleman\nwould do that. But as long as you are hostile to me, I can't help\nyou;--and so good afternoon.\" Then, without giving Montague the\npossibility of a reply, he escaped into an inner room which had the\nword \"Private\" painted on the door, and which was supposed to belong\nto the chairman individually. He shut the door behind him, and then,\nafter a few moments, put out his head and beckoned to Sir Felix\nCarbury. Nidderdale was gone. Lord Alfred with his son were already\non the stairs. Cohenlupe was engaged with Melmotte's clerk on the\nrecord-book. Paul Montague finding himself without support and alone,\nslowly made his way out into the court.\n\nSir Felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the Chairman\nthat having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have a few\nshares to go on with. He was, indeed, at the present moment very\nnearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards, all the\nI.O.U.'s which were in any degree serviceable. He still had a\npocket-book full of those issued by Miles Grendall; but it was now an\nunderstood thing at the Beargarden that no one was to be called upon\nto take them except Miles Grendall himself;--an arrangement which\nrobbed the card-table of much of its delight. Beyond this, also, he\nhad lately been forced to issue a little paper himself,--in doing\nwhich he had talked largely of his shares in the railway. His case\ncertainly was hard. He had actually paid a thousand pounds down in\nhard cash, a commercial transaction which, as performed by himself,\nhe regarded as stupendous. It was almost incredible to himself that\nhe should have paid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it\nwith much difficulty,--having carried Dolly junior with him all the\nway into the city,--in the belief that he would thus put himself in\nthe way of making a continual and unfailing income. He understood\nthat as a director he would be always entitled to buy shares at par,\nand, as a matter of course, always able to sell them at the market\nprice. This he understood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty per\ncent. profit. He would have nothing to do but to buy and sell daily.\nHe was told that Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent;\nand that Melmotte was doing it to an enormous extent. But before he\ncould do it he must get something,--he hardly knew what,--out of\nMelmotte's hands. Melmotte certainly did not seem disposed to shun\nhim, and therefore there could be no difficulty about the shares. As\nto danger;--who could think of danger in reference to money intrusted\nto the hands of Augustus Melmotte?\n\n\"I am delighted to see you here,\" said Melmotte, shaking him\ncordially by the hand. \"You come regularly, and you'll find that it\nwill be worth your while. There's nothing like attending to business.\nYou should be here every Friday.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said the baronet.\n\n\"And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I can\nput you more in the way of understanding things there than I can\nhere. This is all a mere formal sort of thing. You can see that.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I see that.\"\n\n\"We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellow\nMontague. By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?\"\n\n\"Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the women\nknow him at home. He isn't a pal of mine if you mean that.\"\n\n\"If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the\nwall;--that's all. But never mind him at present. Was your mother\nspeaking to you of what I said to her?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Melmotte,\" said Sir Felix, staring with all his eyes.\n\n\"I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she might\nhave told you. This is all nonsense, you know, about you and Marie.\"\nSir Felix looked into the man's face. It was not savage, as he had\nseen it. But there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look\nof a determined purpose which all who knew the man were wont to mark.\nSir Felix had observed it a few minutes since in the Board-room,\nwhen the chairman was putting down the rebellious director. \"You\nunderstand that; don't you?\" Sir Felix still looked at him, but made\nno reply. \"It's all d---- nonsense. You haven't got a brass farthing,\nyou know. You've no income at all; you're just living on your mother,\nand I'm afraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I\nshall give my girl to you?\" Felix still looked at him but did not\ndare to contradict a single statement made. Yet when the man told\nhim that he had not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand\npounds which were now in the man's pocket. \"You're a baronet, and\nthat's about all, you know,\" continued Melmotte. \"The Carbury\nproperty, which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin\nwho may leave it to me if he pleases;--and who isn't very much older\nthan you are yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, Mr. Melmotte; he's a great deal older than me.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam. The thing is out of\nthe question, and you must drop it.\" Then the look on his brow became\na little heavier. \"You hear what I say. She is going to marry Lord\nNidderdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What do\nyou expect to get by it?\"\n\nSir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girl\nhe loved. But as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to say\nsomething. \"I suppose it's the old story,\" he said.\n\n\"Just so;--the old story. You want my money, and she wants you, just\nbecause she has been told to take somebody else. You want something\nto live on;--that's what you want. Come;--out with it. Is not that\nit? When we understand each other I'll put you in the way of making\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Of course I'm not very well off,\" said Felix.\n\n\"About as badly as any young man that I can hear of. You give me your\nwritten promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie, and you\nshan't want for money.\"\n\n\"A written promise!\"\n\n\"Yes;--a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you in\nthe way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able to\nmarry any other girl you please;--or to live without marrying, which\nyou'll find to be better.\"\n\nThere was something worthy of consideration in Mr. Melmotte's\nproposition. Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution,\nhad not specially recommended itself to Sir Felix Carbury. A few\nhorses at Leighton, Ruby Ruggles or any other beauty, and life at the\nBeargarden were much more to his taste. And then he was quite alive\nto the fact that it was possible that he might find himself possessed\nof the wife without the money. Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her\nown, with reference to that settled income; but then Marie might be\nmistaken,--or she might be lying. If he were sure of making money in\nthe way Melmotte now suggested, the loss of Marie would not break\nhis heart. But then also Melmotte might be--lying. \"By-the-bye, Mr.\nMelmotte,\" said he, \"could you let me have those shares?\"\n\n\"What shares?\" And the heavy brow became still heavier.\n\n\"Don't you know?--I gave you a thousand pounds, and I was to have ten\nshares.\"\n\n\"You must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place.\"\n\n\"When is the proper day?\"\n\n\"It is the twentieth of each month I think.\" Sir Felix looked very\nblank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-first\nof the month. \"But what does that signify? Do you want a little\nmoney?\"\n\n\"Well, I do,\" said Sir Felix. \"A lot of fellows owe me money, but\nit's so hard to get it.\"\n\n\"That tells a story of gambling,\" said Mr. Melmotte. \"You think I'd\ngive my girl to a gambler?\"\n\n\"Nidderdale's in it quite as thick as I am.\"\n\n\"Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father\ncan destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You\nwon't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now--\"\n\n\"What;--to Marie?\"\n\n\"No;--not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be shown to her.\nIf you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you\nwant a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before\nyou leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour\nas a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a\nsingle shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my\nproperty to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind about\nthat.\"\n\n\"And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the\ntwentieth of next month?\"\n\n\"I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At\nany rate I won't see you short of money.\"\n\nThe terms were enticing and the letter was of course written.\nMelmotte himself dictated the words, which were not romantic in their\nnature. The reader shall see the letter.\n\n\n   DEAR SIR,\n\n   In consideration of the offers made by you to me, and\n   on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be\n   disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, and would\n   bring down a father's curse upon your daughter, I hereby\n   declare and promise that I will not renew my suit to the\n   young lady, which I hereby altogether renounce.\n\n   I am, Dear Sir,\n   Your obedient Servant,\n\n   FELIX CARBURY.\n\n   AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE, Esq.,\n   --, Grosvenor Square.\n\n\nThe letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of the\noffices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.\n\n\"You'll give me that cheque for £200, Mr. Melmotte?\" The financier\nhesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque as\npromised. \"And you'll see about letting me have those shares?\"\n\n\"You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know.\" Sir Felix said that\nhe would call in Abchurch Lane.\n\nAs he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happy\nin his mind. Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman,\nindifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt\nashamed of himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew\nthat he was behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried\nto console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as\nthat would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on\nconsideration, find it to be worth his while to do so.\n\nThat night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a\ngreat part of Mr. Melmotte's money. He did in fact lose much more\nthan the £200; but when he found his ready money going from him he\nissued paper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nPAUL MONTAGUE'S TROUBLES.\n\n\nPaul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of\nthe Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had\ntaken Mrs. Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings\nat Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day,\nwhen he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to\ntheir engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the\nmeeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping\nhad stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and\nhad dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had\npromised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had\nnow been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she\nbecame soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have\ngiven way. At that moment he had felt that any fate in life would be\nbetter than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings,\nnevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most\ndistinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was\nlovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet.\nShe would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to\ndrive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could\nnot but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears\nand she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he\ndid know that he had promised to be with her again before two days\nshould have passed.\n\nOn the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which\nwas at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to\nLiverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return.\nAnd he explained that the business on which he was called was\nconnected with the great American railway, and, being important,\ndemanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been\ncorresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become\nacquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a\npartner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he\ntrusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name,\nhad suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone,\nand his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice which\nhe had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the\ncoming interview with Mrs. Hurtle had not added strength to Mr.\nRamsbottom's invitation.\n\nIn Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though it can\nhardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady\nafter landing from an American steamer had been at Mr. Ramsbottom's\noffice, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr. Ramsbottom had thought\nthat the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He\ntherefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs. Hurtle, and the\nfellow-traveller had opined that Mrs. Hurtle was \"a queer card.\" \"On\nboard ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest\nwoman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the\nwild cat in her breeding.\" Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the\nlady was a widow. \"There was a man on board from Kansas,\" said the\nfellow-traveller, \"who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who\nwas separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, according\nto him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel\nwith pistols, and then having separated.\" This Mr. Ramsbottom, who in\nan earlier stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs.\nHurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice\nabout the railway company was very clear and general, and such as\nan honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed\nby letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs. Hurtle,\ncould only be given vivâ voce, and perhaps the invitation to\nLiverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of this\nfact. \"As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well that\nyou should know,\" his friend said to him. Paul had only thanked\nhim, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own\ndifficulties.\n\nIn all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also\nbeen some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been\nsubject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his\nadherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his\nengagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his\npromise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that\nshe had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms\nround him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. But\nwhen, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed\nitself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta\nCarbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let his\nfate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of\nMrs. Hurtle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be\nvery difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--but\nif it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help\nhim. She certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or even\ndivorced,--but dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a\nduel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentleman\nshould object to become her second husband. These facts would at any\nrate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to break\nfrom his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor.\n\nBut he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be\nmade to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on\nthe score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very\nstrongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he\nwould have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing\nwhich might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done\nwhat he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage.\nHe must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her\npast life, and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he\nmight write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be\nunable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. It was his\nmisfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be loved\nby a wild cat.\n\nBut it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of\ninformation that might have the appearance of real evidence. He\nreturned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on\nwhich the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he\ndid of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmotte. If\nhe could come across that traveller he might learn something. The\nhusband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc Carson\nHurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two\nyears, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he\nfelt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it\nmight be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part\nto withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though\nnot corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had\nshot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story?\nIf they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself.\n\nBut this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having\nhad the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as\nthese? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in\nhis arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them\nwith her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything\nto herself? To speak to her thus;--\"I am told that your life with\nyour last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you\neven fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought\na duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband.\nI am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well\nbe that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something\nin the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on\nthat score also, I must decline to marry you. I am told also that\nMr. Hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. I had understood from\nyou that he is dead. No doubt you may have been deceived. But as I\nshould not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so now\nI consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement\nwhich was based on a misconception.\" It would no doubt be difficult\nto get through all these details; but it might be accomplished\ngradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur the\nfate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare to\nher as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right to\nconsider himself free, and would bear the consequences. Such was the\nresolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool, and that\ntrouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte\nsingle-handed at the Board.\n\nWhen the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden.\nPerhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him most\nwas the conviction that he was spending money which he would never\nhave had to spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with\nthis at the Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to\nthe money which had been invested in the Company of Fisker, Montague,\nand Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over\nto the railway. But the money which he was spending had come to\nhim after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an\naccount, he could hardly make out one which would be square and\nintelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time\nat the Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him\nelsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's,\nat the young lord's instigation. \"What made you so savage at old\nMelmotte to-day?\" said the young lord.\n\n\"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves\nDirectors we ought to know something about it.\"\n\n\"I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've\nbeen thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a\nDirector.\"\n\n\"Because you're a lord,\" said Paul bluntly.\n\n\"I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them?\nNobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in\nParliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote.\nEverybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governor\nsaid that I was to do it, and so I've done it.\"\n\n\"They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And\nwhy should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old\nGrendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out\nthe two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be\nold Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about\nit, and I can't make it out.\"\n\n\"I have been thinking about it too,\" said Paul.\n\n\"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?\" asked Nidderdale. This was a\nquestion which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be\njustified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at\nany rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? \"You can\nspeak out to me, you know,\" said Nidderdale, nodding his head.\n\n\"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest\nman alive.\"\n\n\"He lives as though he were.\"\n\n\"I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows\nvery much about him.\" When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat\ndown, thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would \"be coming\na cropper rather,\" were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her\nmoney, and then find that she had got none.\n\nA little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the\ncard-room. \"Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there\nwaiting,\" he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles\nfor play. \"Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that,\" said\nNidderdale.\n\n\"Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me,\" said Montague.\n\n\"Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that\nas well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in\nLeicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's\na shame.\"\n\n\"You'll pay him some day.\"\n\n\"I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone on\nwith the horses just the same if there had never been anything to\ncome;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm\nconcerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money\nor not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then\nI like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things\nabout poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If\nhe were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a £10 note. But because\nhe has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd\nbetter come up.\"\n\nBut Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the\nclub, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he\nfound himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there,\nand certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left\nthe Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. As long as she was\npresent in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell\nhimself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself\nto be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he\nwas still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he\nwould avoid Hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yet\nunexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish\npromise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--but\nstill it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it\nwould be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street\nand almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was\nnot at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to that\nmoment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may\nremember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury\nwas at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and\nsee Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that\nhe would go up and see Miss Carbury. \"Mamma is out with Roger,\" said\nHetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. \"There is a soirée\nof learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The\nticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not\ngo.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met.\"\n\n\"Hardly since the Melmottes' ball,\" said Hetta.\n\n\"Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought\nRoger up to town?\"\n\n\"I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a\nmystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix.\nI do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board.\"\n\n\"But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,\"--Paul could not\nkeep himself from blushing as he heard this,--\"and that Felix should\nnot be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid\nman's daughter.\"\n\n\"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think.\"\n\n\"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is\nfor her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with\nthem.\"\n\n\"What man, Miss Carbury?\"\n\n\"Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end.\"\n\n\"But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest\nfriends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into an\ninner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done\nthat if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought\nthat he had consented to the marriage.\"\n\n\"Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I know he has,\" said Paul.\n\n\"And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't\nyou think so, Mr. Montague?\" Paul did think so, and was by no means\ndisposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to\nhim; but still he found the subject difficult. \"Of course I will\nnever go against mamma,\" continued Hetta, \"but I always feel that my\nCousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he\nsaid one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I\nthought that of, but I do think it of him.\"\n\n\"No one has more reason to praise him than I have.\"\n\n\"I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him.\nAnd I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he\nsays it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think.\nIf he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it\nto spend; but other people are not like that.\"\n\n\"You're thinking of Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody except\nRoger.\"\n\n\"Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem\neven to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend\nthat any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do.\"\n\n\"I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so.\nBut of all my friends--\"\n\n\"Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?\"\n\n\"Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a\nfriend,--because you are his friend.\"\n\n\"Look here, Hetta,\" he said. \"It is no good going on like this. I\nlove Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all\nthat you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and\nhow he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and\nevery inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I\nbelieve he does love his neighbour as himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that.\"\n\n\"I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. If\nyou will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I\nwill leave England at once, and never return to it.\"\n\n\"There's mamma,\" said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a\ndouble knock at the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\n\"I DO LOVE HIM.\"\n\n\nSo it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned\npeople, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up\nto the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need\nhardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that\nMontague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a\nfrequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling\nthat a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's\nabsence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a\nman not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were\nsuspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why\nPaul should not have been there,--but from the promise which had been\ngiven. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's\npresence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that\nthe two could hardly have spent the evening together without such\nbreach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already\nsaid the reader must be left to decide.\n\nLady Carbury was the first to speak. \"This is quite an unexpected\npleasure, Mr. Montague.\" Whether Roger suspected anything or not,\nshe did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the\nmeeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said,--making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have\nbeen made,--\"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I\nwould come up and see you.\" Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether,\nbut Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had\nbeen an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.\n\n\"I thought you were at Liverpool,\" said Roger.\n\n\"I came back to-day,--to be present at that Board in the city. I have\nhad a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now.\nWhat has brought you to London?\"\n\n\"A little business,\" said Roger.\n\nThen there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly\nknew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta\nit was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been\ncaught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well\nher mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would\nrun. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to\nspeak. \"Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?\"\n\n\"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?\" said Lady Carbury,\nforgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.\n\n\"Indeed, no,\" said Hetta, attempting to laugh, \"I have been trying to\nwork hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try\nto work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did\nyou think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?\"\n\n\"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked\nit.\"\n\n\"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we\ncan only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get\neverything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination\nnecessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea,\nRoger?\"\n\n\"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to.\"\n\n\"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe\nthat labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to\nlabour.\"\n\n\"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his\ndescendants back into Eden.\"\n\n\"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have\nquite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled\nhere as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It\nis the garden of the world.\"\n\nThis scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate\ndifficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to\nget out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed\nbehind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. \"What brought him\nhere?\"\n\n\"He brought himself, mamma.\"\n\n\"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself.\nThat is insolent.\"\n\n\"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he\ncame of his own accord.\"\n\n\"How long was he here?\"\n\n\"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like\nthis? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be\nshown up.\"\n\n\"You did not know that he was to come?\"\n\n\"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always.\nIf you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you\ndid? I knew nothing of his coming.\"\n\n\"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?\"\n\n\"No;--I am not.\"\n\n\"Has he asked you to marry him?\"\n\nHetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this\nquestion. \"I do not think he ever has.\"\n\n\"You do not think?\"\n\n\"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said\nthat which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife.\"\n\n\"What has he said? When did he say it?\"\n\nAgain she paused. But again she answered with straightforward\nsimplicity. \"Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he\nsaid; but it meant that.\"\n\n\"You told me he had been here but a minute.\"\n\n\"It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way,\nof course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no\ntime, and yet he said it.\"\n\n\"He had come prepared to say it.\"\n\n\"How could he,--expecting to find you?\"\n\n\"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind.\"\n\n\"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong.\nI think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an\naccident.\"\n\n\"An accident!\"\n\n\"It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so\nlong;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we\nwere alone together.\"\n\n\"And you;--what did you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing. You came.\"\n\n\"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I\nmust ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?\" Hetta\nwas again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to\nher brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother\nhad a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her\nmother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done,\nno word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that\nher mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that\nshe had so little sympathy from her mother. \"How do you intend to\nanswer him?\" demanded Lady Carbury.\n\n\"I do not know that he will ask again.\"\n\n\"That is prevaricating.\"\n\n\"No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me.\nI do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to\nknow that I should never give him encouragement without telling you\nabout it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else.\"\n\n\"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which\nhe is involved will go to pieces.\"\n\nHetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not\ndoubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she\ndid doubt that her mother had believed the story. \"If so,\" said she,\n\"Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to\nmarry Marie Melmotte.\"\n\n\"It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these\nthings. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a\nfortune out of the Railway!\" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an\nextremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her\nchildren of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her\npower to recommend to the other child.\n\n\"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying\nhim, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard,\nthat I cannot bear them.\"\n\n\"Why will you not marry your cousin?\"\n\n\"I am not good enough for him.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\"\n\n\"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above\nme, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way.\nAnd I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret\nfrom you now. Good night, mamma,\" she said, coming up to her mother\nand kissing her. \"Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me.\"\nLady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her\ndaughter to leave the room.\n\n\n[Illustration: Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.]\n\n\nThere was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and\nPaul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's\nhotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street.\nPaul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have\nbeen accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said.\nMontague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London.\n\"I do not wish it to be talked of,\" said Roger after a pause,--\"and\nof course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away\nfrom our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?\"\n\n\"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John\nCrumb.\"\n\n\"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy\nframe of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for\nher.\"\n\n\"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?\"\n\n\"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down\nthere that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been\ntaken to London by him.\"\n\n\"That would be very bad.\"\n\n\"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when\nI first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had\nbeen friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship\nmeans. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of\ncourse he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his\nhorse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave\nfifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet\nto be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as\nold as I am he'll be perfect.\"\n\n\"He knows nothing about her coming to town?\"\n\n\"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that\nI was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I\nfollowed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he\nknew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did.\nSince that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a\nminute, and then he swore that he had not seen her.\"\n\n\"You still believed him?\"\n\n\"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me.\nI cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles\nhas now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back\nhis granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off,\nand he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of\nhis money.\"\n\nAfter that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in\nregard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger\ncould only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool\nfriend. \"I never believed in the thing, you know.\"\n\n\"Nor did I. But what could I do?\"\n\n\"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling\nsure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on\nmy own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I\ndo. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly,\nit behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice\nof some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind\nyour character to another man's character; and that other man's\ncharacter, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear\nMr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must\ndo exactly what he tells you.\"\n\nBut the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had\nin the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to\ndo about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his\nfriend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with\nher three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter,\ntoo,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs.\nHurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta\nCarbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his\nfriend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him\nto give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger\non the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the\nquestion of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such\nperson existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place\nexactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury.\nPaul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the\nrumour of the existing husband.\n\n\"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to\nOregon,\" said Roger.\n\n\"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her,\" said Paul.\nRoger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta\nCarbury, but he said nothing. \"And what would she do, remaining\nhere?\" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. \"I\nam determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know\nI have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there\nbe a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can.\"\n\n\"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of\nit honestly or--any other way.\"\n\n\"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as\nmuch as we do now?\"\n\n\"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be\ndishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you\ncould. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were\nyou, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws\nwere strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what\nI'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it.\"\n\nBut Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself\nto incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take\nhis place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved\nbetween them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington,\nshould tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and\nshould end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances\nwould he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he\nshould ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost\ncertain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself\nbefore that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be\npursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate\nto declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the\nduel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make\nMrs. Hurtle his wife. \"I wish it were over, old fellow,\" said Roger.\n\n\"So do I,\" said Paul, as he took his leave.\n\nHe went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and\nhe awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook\nfrom him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed\nhim. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he\nwakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour.\nIt was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant\nrelief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself\nbelieve that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be\nwell that he should think of it further, and put off his execution\ntill Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go\nto Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto\nforgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with\nhis friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to\nLiverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should\nhe go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own\nhands?\n\nAt last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself\nas quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude,\nand resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over.\nHe ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he\nmight not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he\nremembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an\nenergetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad,\nnot sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day,\nwould it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible?\nI can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if\none had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on\nthe first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last\nSabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get\nit over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had\nrealised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab,\nand ordered the man to drive him to Islington.\n\nHow quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab\nwhen a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing\nso slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was\nthe quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall\nMall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across\nTottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the\nMuseum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside\nof the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of\nGoswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague\nhad been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the\ninterview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It\nwas not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it\nmight be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and\nwalk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath\nbefore the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the\ndoor in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house\naware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little\ngarden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet\nlong, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's\nname on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the\nman half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in\nthe iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather\nfuriously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day,\" said the girl who opened the door.\n\"Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night.\"\nProvidence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the\nreprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.\n\"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?\" Ruby Ruggles had often seen\nPaul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It\noccurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She\nknew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she\nhad of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen\nthe baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew,\nwas Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was\ncaught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor\nhad asked for Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left\nyour home.\"\n\n\"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or,\nleastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never\nwould speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children,\nand lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with\nher just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this\nevening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm\nquite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid\nabout me.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of\nair, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs.\nHurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't\nmind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them.\nMrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs.\nHurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs.\nHurtle, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes; she's a friend of mine.\"\n\n\"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was\nexpected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?\"\n\nPaul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby\na few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message\nhe would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. \"I'm afraid they are very unhappy\nabout you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles.\"\n\n\"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague.\nGrandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him,\nnor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by\nmy hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that?\nAnd I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it\nagain;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots\nof a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about\nthe place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't\nnobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about\nby the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr.\nMontague;--nor yet won't the Squire.\"\n\n\"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home.\"\n\n\"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to\ngive me a home, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought.\"\n\n\"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm\nsure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have\nhim,--but I never cared that for him.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in\nLondon.\"\n\n\"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you\nthat. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked\nafter; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch.\" That told\nthe whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure\nthat Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John\nCrumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman\nmight have an opinion of his own on that matter. \"But there's Betsy a\ncrying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one\nminute.\"\n\n\"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles.\"\n\n\"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the\nSquire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr.\nMontague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling.\"\n\nPaul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note\nfor her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return\nfrom Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day.\nWhen should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would\nattend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have\nhimself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself\ninto half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more\ngracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another\nday. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as\nthe following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post.\nWhen the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to\nRuby to tell her that he was going. \"Mr. Montague,\" she said in a\nconfidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, \"I don't see\nwhy you need be saying anything about me, you know.\"\n\n\"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you.\"\n\n\"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?\"\n\n\"Your grandfather is very anxious about you.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where\nI am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going.\nWhy should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself\nabout him.\"\n\n\"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young\nman who is not trustworthy.\"\n\n\"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in\ntown?\" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her\nforehead. \"You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can\ncome of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?\"\n\n\"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as\nyou. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged.\"\n\n\"But I must tell Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit,\" said Ruby, shutting the door.\n\nPaul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of\nRuby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to\nbe a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had\nengaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had\nfor the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?\n\nIn regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for\ntwo days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he\nwalked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him\nto have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think\nof Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard\nthat declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been\nable for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n\"UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS.\"\n\n\nThat evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a\nnote from Mr. Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger\nfrom the city,--who had expected to have an immediate answer, as\nthough Montague lived at the club.\n\n\"Dear Sir,\" said the letter,\n\n\n   If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor\n   Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are\n   going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in\n   the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want\n   to have a few words with you in private about the Company.\n   My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.\n\n   Yours truly,\n\n   AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE, Esq.,\n   The Beargarden.\n\n\nPaul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square\nat the hour appointed,--abandoning any intentions which he might have\nhad in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only\nletter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he\nfound a note, containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurtle had found\nthe means of sending to him after her return from Southend. \"I am so\nsorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H.\" The\nperiod of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.\n\nOn the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to\nGrosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to\nsay to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the\nBoard-room,--especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had\nunderstood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was\nto fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy\nas would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of\nfinancial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to\nhis money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character\nand keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved\nto be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr.\nRamsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting\nfor him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmotte would\nmake some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr.\nRamsbottom at his elbow to help him.\n\nHe had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had\ncontented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much\nof the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and\nthe crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with\nHetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to\nfind that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and\nladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great\ndinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way\nto the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor,\nwhere the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. Here\nhe waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the\nback. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which\nhe could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own\npersonal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure,\nwhen Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a\nmagnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. \"My dear sir, I am\nso sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business\nshould be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,--from the house\nof Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with\nme. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a\nquarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man\nto catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it.\" Montague assured\nthe great man that the delay was of no consequence. \"And I am so\nsorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my\nroom down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get\ninto a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow.\nLongestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the\ndinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the\ndinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're\nrun after.\" Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard\nas little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of\nLondon. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and\ncertainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from\nMr. Melmotte's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr.\nMelmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not\nparticularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing\nin the way of other people. \"Ah, indeed,\" said Melmotte. \"There are\never so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd\nbe astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in\na chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another\nfor the Bishop of--; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two\narchbishops before. They say he must come because he has something\nto do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the\nticket, if you'll have it.\" This was the ticket which was to have\ntaken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not\nMelmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But\nPaul would not take the bribe. \"You're the only man in London then,\"\nsaid Melmotte, somewhat offended. \"But at any rate you'll come in\nthe evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to\nyou.\" Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the\nevening. \"I am particularly anxious,\" continued he, \"to be civil to\nthose who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in\nthis country, your name stands first,--next to my own.\"\n\nThen the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could\nbe possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday\nmorning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a\nfortnight later. But that was impossible. \"Have you anything special\nto say about the Railway?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course\nthere are some there who do not understand matters.\"\n\n\"I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter,\"\nsaid Paul.\n\nMelmotte affected to laugh. \"Well, well; I am not prepared to go\nquite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in\nthese affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament.\nAnd Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him\ncredit for.\"\n\n\"He may easily do that.\"\n\n\"Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do.\" The\nscowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been\nbanished as well as he knew how to banish it. \"What I wanted to say\nto you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting.\"\n\n\"No; we did not.\"\n\n\"I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of\nsuch an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything.\"\nMr. Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his\nhands over his head. \"Without unanimity we can do--nothing.\" And\nthe two hands fell. \"Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a\nBoard-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"But suppose the directors are not unanimous.\"\n\n\"They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God\nbless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!\"\n\n\"Not if it can be carried on honestly.\"\n\n\"Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?\" Again the brow\nbecame very heavy. \"Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel\nin that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may\ndo to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the\nresponsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must\nbe stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin\nwidows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run\ndown 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property\nblasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,--annihilated,\nsir;--so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children\npast counting were sent out to starve about the streets,--just\nbecause one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by\nG----! What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't\nknow the nature of credit, how strong it is,--as the air,--to buoy\nyou up; how slight it is,--as a mere vapour,--when roughly touched,\ncan do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the\nleast understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?\"\n\n\"What do I want?\" Melmotte's description of the peculiar\nsusceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given\nwithout some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself\nalmost drove that effect out of his mind. \"I only want justice.\"\n\n\"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the\nexpense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are\nlike the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of\nit.\"\n\n\"For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am\nnot thinking of myself.\"\n\n\"You are getting very good interest. If I understand the\nmatter,\"--and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby\nhow careful he was in mastering details,--\"you had about £6,000\nembarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine\nyourself to have that still.\"\n\n\"I don't know what I've got.\"\n\n\"I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a\nthousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another.\nThat's not bad interest on your money.\"\n\n\"There was back interest due to me.\"\n\n\"If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr.\nMontague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was\nabout to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that,\nas you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should\ngo out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get\nnecessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried,\nand without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course\nyou'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal\ninterests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power\nof attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but,\nshould anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as\nsound as anything I know,--of course you, as absent, would not\nshare the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a\ndelightful trip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain\nat the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit\nI could devolve nearly the whole management on you;--and I must do\nsomething of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,--if\nit is to be that way,--do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of\nthese things;--the very soul, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"But if I can't be unanimous?\"\n\n\"Well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going\nout;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It\nmight be the very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest\nthat you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be\ngreatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see\nthat you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible\nfor the payment of it,--some time before the end of the year.\"\n\nPaul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole\nmatter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. \"And\nnow, good-bye,\" said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu\nin a hurry. \"I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank\nDirector, waiting down-stairs.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nALL PREPARED.\n\n\nDuring all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with\nher lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his\nsincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in\nthe presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be\nchopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling\nhow she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and\nhow willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and\nmother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that\nshe had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a\nlittle slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But,\nnevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was\ntrue to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written\nvarious letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very\nshort notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each.\nBut now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage\nwith Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready.\nShe was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were,\napproaching the end of June. \"You may buy what you like, mamma,\" she\nsaid; \"and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do.\nBut they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to\nsew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him.\" Madame\nMelmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and\nwished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and\nass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by\nswearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. \"Nobody shall\nmanage this matter for me,\" said Marie. \"I know what I'm about now,\nand I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa.\" \"Que\nnous étions encore à Francfort, ou New York,\" said the elder lady,\nremembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life.\nMarie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for\nLondon;--but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.\n\nWhile her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his\nown house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of\nthe city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable\ngentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his\nname was mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was\nalso there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there\nalso close along side of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for\nher own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the\nsquare did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday\nmorning. Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to\nher, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had\nthought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his\nappointment,--having been assured by Didon that the gate should be\nleft unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had\ncome in,--was of course ready with a lie. \"It was the only thing to\ndo, Marie;--it was indeed.\"\n\n\"But you said you had accepted some offer.\"\n\n\"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?\"\n\n\"It was your handwriting, Felix.\"\n\n\"Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you\nclean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written\nit.\"\n\n\"And you have accepted nothing?\"\n\n\"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him\na thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him\nyet.\" Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200.\n\n\"Nobody ever does who gives papa money,\" said the observant daughter.\n\n\"Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything\nbetter than a downright quarrel.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so.\"\n\n\"It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you\nthink we'd best do now?\" Marie looked at him, almost with scorn.\nSurely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. \"I wonder\nwhether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is\nsettled.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"It's no good scolding.\"]\n\n\n\"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming\naway,--that it was done so that there might be something if things\nwent wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something\nfrom time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I\nwon't,--if I should have a husband of my own.\" Felix walked along,\npondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. He\nentertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord\nNidderdale. There would be no \"cropper\" which a man could \"come\"\nso bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and\nthen find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to\nrun off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father\nwould certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the\nsettled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of\ndanger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor\nthe shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably\nsupply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow,\nand he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give\nher up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to\nhis engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the\npresent. \"What are you thinking of, Felix?\" she asked.\n\n\"It's d---- difficult to know what to do.\"\n\n\"But you do love me?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking\nround this stupid place? They talk of your being married to\nNidderdale about the end of August.\"\n\n\"Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't\ntake me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long\nago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did.\nI don't think you care much, Felix.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a\nbeastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I\ncould say it often enough.\"\n\n\"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be.\"\n\n\"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet.\"\n\n\"You're not going to give it up!\"\n\n\"Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow\ndoesn't know what to do.\"\n\n\"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?\" suggested\nMarie.\n\n\"He's one of those city chaps.\"\n\n\"And Lady Julia Start?\"\n\n\"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They\ngot spliced last winter.\"\n\n\"Yes,--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to\nSwitzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate.\"\n\n\"How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could\nto prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the\ntidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier.\"\n\n\"Oh;--ah. Didon knows all about it.\"\n\n\"That she does.\"\n\n\"But she'd lose her place.\"\n\n\"There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and\nbe my maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she'd arrange it\nall.\"\n\n\"And would you come to Folkestone?\"\n\n\"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should\nmake it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going\nto--New York. And then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on\nboard. That's what Didon thinks.\"\n\n\"And would Didon go too?\"\n\n\"That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call\nmyself by her name;--any French name you know. I should go as a\nFrench girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American.\nWe wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last\nmoment. If they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at New York,\ninstantly.\"\n\n\"That's Didon's plan?\"\n\n\"That's what she thinks best,--and she'll do it, if you'll give her\n£50 for herself, you know. The 'Adriatic,'--that's a White Star boat,\ngoes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take\nus down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and\ntake no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back\nin a month,--and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it.\"\n\nSir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to\ngo to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to\nthe best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all\nat her fingers' ends,--even to the amount of the fee required by the\nfemale counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole\nthing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to\nget funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had\nbeen fool enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he\nwas told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to\nrelease it. And he had nothing to show;--no security that he could\noffer to Vossner. And then,--this idea of starting to New York with\nMelmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte\nrenouncing the girl, frightened him.\n\n   \"There is a tide in the affairs of men,\n    Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.\"\n\nSir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them\ncame home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at\nwhich he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. \"It's deuced\nimportant,\" he said at last with a groan.\n\n\"It's not more important for you than me,\" said Marie.\n\n\"If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where\nshould we be then?\"\n\n\"Nothing venture, nothing have,\" said the heiress.\n\n\"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get\nnothing after all.\"\n\n\"You'd get me,\" said Marie with a pout.\n\n\"Yes;--and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you!\nBut--\"\n\n\"Very well then;--if that's your love,\" said Marie, turning back from\nhim.\n\nSir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. \"I'll\nventure it.\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!\"\n\n\"There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be\nThursday week.\" He was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve.\n\n\"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long.\"\n\n\"There's the money to get, and all that.\"\n\n\"I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house.\"\n\n\"How much?\" asked the baronet eagerly.\n\n\"A hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred.\"\n\n\"That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't\nthat be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!\"\n\nIt was decided that they were to go to New York, on a Thursday,--on\nThursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a\nday or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get it sent out of\nthe house. Didon was to have £50 before she went on board; and as one\nof the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks\nsmuggled out of the house, he was to have £10. All had been settled\nbeforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about\nanything. \"And now,\" said Marie, \"there's Didon. Nobody's looking\nand she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep\nout. The gate can be left, you know. Then we'll get out on the other\nside.\" Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\n\"CAN YOU BE READY IN TEN MINUTES?\"\n\n\nAfter leaving Melmotte's house on Sunday morning Paul Montague went\nto Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from\nchurch. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made up\nhis mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would\ndine early and be with Mrs. Hurtle about seven o'clock. But it was\nnecessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. \"It's\nnot so bad as you thought,\" said he, \"as she is living with her\naunt.\"\n\n\"I never heard of such an aunt.\"\n\n\"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't\nwant her back again.\"\n\n\"Does she see Felix Carbury?\"\n\n\"I think she does,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll go\nand see her and try to get her back to Bungay.\"\n\n\"Why not send for John Crumb?\"\n\nRoger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, \"He'd give Felix\nsuch a thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as\nwell as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why\nI should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I\ndon't suppose the girl is all bad,--if she could see the truth.\"\n\n\"I don't think she's bad at all.\"\n\n\"At any rate I'll go and see her,\" said Roger. \"Perhaps I shall see\nyour widow at the same time.\" Paul sighed, but said nothing more\nabout his widow at that moment. \"I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now,\"\nsaid Roger, taking his hat. \"Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow.\" Paul\nfelt that he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend.\n\nHe dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that\njourney to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposal\nthat had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clear\nconscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway,\nsuch an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had said\nalready more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and though\nhe was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought\nthat what he had said had been well received. At the moment they had\nbeen disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming,\nhad at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into\nbreaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period\nof the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course\nhe would take care that she should know that he had gone in the\nperformance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs. Hurtle,\nand would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested\nto him. It was possible that Mrs. Hurtle should offer to go with\nhim,--an arrangement which would not at all suit him. That at any\nrate must be avoided. But then how could he do this without a belief\nin the railway generally? And how was it possible that he should have\nsuch belief? Mr. Ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did Roger\nCarbury. He himself did not in the least believe in Fisker, and\nFisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not be best that he\nshould take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If he could get\nhis £6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would certainly\nthink himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with\nhonesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he\ncould put implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guarantee for the\namount. This at any rate was clear to him,--that Melmotte was very\nanxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.\n\nNow he was again at Mrs. Pipkin's door, and again it was opened\nby Ruby Ruggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the\nthings he had to say. \"The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss\nRuggles?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs. Hurtle is expecting you all the day.\" Then she\nput in a whisper on her own account. \"You didn't tell him as you'd\nseen me, Mr. Montague?\"\n\n\"Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles.\"\n\n\"Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been\nill-natured,--that's all,\" said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs.\nHurtle's room.\n\nMrs. Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,--and her\nsmile could be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like\nmost witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could\ncharm. \"Only fancy,\" she said, \"that you should have come the only\nday I have been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening\nwhen you took me to the play. I was so sorry.\"\n\n\"Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again.\"\n\n\"Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn't well,\nand I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin took a\nbright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying\nto go herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise.\"\n\n\"A cockney Paradise.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and\nfancy that that is the sea?\"\n\n\"I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,--so that you\nknow more about it than I do.\"\n\n\"How very English it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the\nsea! Ah;--you never were at Newport!\"\n\n\"But I've been at San Francisco.\"\n\n\"Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling.\nWell; that's better than Southend.\"\n\n\"I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It's generally\nsupposed we're an island.\"\n\n\"Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west\nof Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does\ngo there for fear of being murdered.\" Paul thought of the gentleman\nin Oregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition,\nand remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to\nOregon or the west of Ireland. \"But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs.\nPipkin and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid\nthat the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the\nbest of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must\nacknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid.\nShe has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out\nof these lodgings. People are just as poor with us;--and other people\nwho happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is\nhumble to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money\nas well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference.\"\n\n\"He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as\nagreeable as he can to him who can give.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. However we got back all right\nyesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here,--at\nlast.\"\n\n\"You knew that I had to go to Liverpool.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at\nLiverpool?\"\n\n\"Yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything very\nsatisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway.\"\n\n\"I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks\nof it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man\nthat I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate\nlittle peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank\nin the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the\nlargest railway. It would be better even than being President of a\nRepublic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is it\nthat you do in it, Paul?\"\n\n\"They want me now to go out to Mexico about it,\" said he slowly.\n\n\"Shall you go?\" said she, throwing herself forward and asking the\nquestion with manifest anxiety.\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not\ngo? It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway\nwill make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had\ndone it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will\nnever come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico\nand have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do\nanything. Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!\"\n\n\"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of\ndoing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that\none might be out of the way.\"\n\n\"I would make the means of doing something.\"\n\n\"Means are money. How can I make that?\"\n\n\"There is money going. There must be money where there is all this\nbuying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money\nwith which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does\nFisker get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where\ndoes Melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the\nworld? Why should not you get it as well as the others?\"\n\n\"If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it.\"\n\n\"Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace\nand spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have\nambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your\nway, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make\npeople there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no\ndifficulty about the money.\"\n\nHe felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he\nshould have to discuss before he left her,--or rather the statement\nwhich he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which\nhe allowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him\nfarther away from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should\nnot be made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she\nmight be one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied\nan understanding that his former abnegation of his engagement had\nbeen withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her,\nin a side-way fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship\neither for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose.\nThe thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on\nits own basis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the\nintroduction of it infinitely more difficult.\n\n\"You are not in a hurry?\" she said.\n\n\"Oh no.\"\n\n\"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I'll\nask them to let us have tea.\" She rang the bell and Ruby came in, and\nthe tea was ordered. \"That young lady tells me that you are an old\nfriend of hers.\"\n\n\"I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find\nher here yesterday.\"\n\n\"There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she\ndoes not like?\"\n\n\"And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like.\"\n\n\"That's quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn't\nthe girl to have come to her time of life without a preference.\nThe natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above\nher, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of\nspeech,--just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is\none of the evils of the inequality of mankind. The girl is content\nwith the love without having the love justified, because the object\nis more desirable. She can only have her love justified with an\nobject less desirable. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and\nhad to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them,\nthat evil would come to an end. A woman here and there might go wrong\nfrom fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation\nto go wrong would be at an end.\"\n\n\"If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would\nwear different coats the next day.\"\n\n\"Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine\nlinen, and no more blue woad. It isn't to be done in a day of course,\nnor yet in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human\nbeing who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be\nmade in that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me\nthat.\"\n\nNeither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions\nof women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. But\nhaving got on to these rocks,--having, as the reader may perceive,\nbeen taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,--he did not\nknow how to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his\nown subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws,\nand the possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk\nfreely on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont\nin former years. \"Thanks,\" he said, changing his cup. \"How well you\nremember!\"\n\n\"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do\nyou recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should\nnever wear blue?\"\n\nShe stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer,\nso that he was obliged to speak. \"Of course I do. Black is your\ncolour;--black and grey; or white,--and perhaps yellow when you\nchoose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green.\"\n\n\"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for\ngospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things,--as you have,\nPaul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forbodes, an\neffete civilisation.\"\n\n\"I am sorry that mine should be effete,\" he said smiling.\n\n\"You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals.\nCivilisation was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in\nthe time of the great painters; but Savanarola and Galileo were\nindividuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This\nrailway to Mexico gives you the chance.\"\n\n\"Are the Mexicans a new people?\"\n\n\"They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say\nhave bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to\nParis for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally\ngood. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our\ngenuine workmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero,\nPaul.\" He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an\nagony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero\nat the very moment in his life in which he felt more devoid of\nheroism, more thoroughly given up to cowardice than he had ever been\nbefore, was not to be endured! And yet, with what utmost stretch of\ncourage,--even though he were willing to devote himself certainly and\ninstantly to the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,--could\nhe immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered\nas they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant,\nmost tragic matter! It was the unfitness that deterred him and\nnot the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, through it all, he was\nsure,--nearly sure,--that she was playing her game, and playing it\nin direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he wanted to\nplay. Would it not be better that he should go away and write another\nletter? In a letter he could at any rate say what he had to say;--and\nhaving said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere to it.\n\"What makes you so uneasy?\" she asked; still speaking in her most\nwinning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. \"Do you not\nlike me to say that I would have you be a hero?\"\n\n\"Winifrid,\" he said, \"I came here with a purpose, and I had better\ncarry it out.\"\n\n\"What purpose?\" She still leaned forward, but now supported her face\non her two hands with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him\nintently. But one would have said that there was only love in her\neyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild\ncat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood\nwith his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying\nto find fitting words for the occasion. \"Stop, my dear,\" she said.\n\"Must the purpose be told to-night?\"\n\n\"Why not to-night?\"\n\n\"Paul, I am not well;--I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know\nthe delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old\nfriend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs. Pipkin is not\nvery charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my\nlife. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh,\nPaul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me\nthat you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future\ndays, or with pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your\npurpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to\nspeak daggers;--then drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think\nwhat my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of\ncomfort.\"\n\nOf course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that\nsolace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. \"I will not\nharass you, if you are ill,\" he said.\n\n\"I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill\nthat I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun\nhere is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,--what Mrs. Pipkin\ncalls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it\nwould do me good. Where had I better go?\" Paul suggested Brighton.\n\"That is full of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?\"\n\n\"Not at this time of the year.\"\n\n\"But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be\npretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you\nknow;--not that any place can be very far from here.\" Paul, in his\nJohn Bull displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that\nit would take twenty-four hours. \"Not Penzance then, which I know is\nyour very Ultima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no\nother place,--except Southend?\"\n\n\"There is Cromer in Norfolk,--perhaps ten hours.\"\n\n\"Is Cromer by the sea?\"\n\n\"Yes;--what we call the sea.\"\n\n\"I mean really the sea, Paul?\"\n\n\"If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps\ntake you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do\nperhaps.\"\n\n\"Ah,--now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?\"\n\n\"Well, yes;--I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember\nmuch. There's Ramsgate.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should like\nRamsgate.\"\n\n\"There's the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty.\"\n\n\"That's the Queen's place. There would not be room for her and me\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a\nrailway all the distance.\"\n\n\"And sea?\"\n\n\"Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there\nare waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every\nother day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a\nthousand.\"\n\n\"A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at\nSouthend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the\nriver. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs.\nPipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a\nwish for the ocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an\nhotel?\"\n\n\"A small little place.\"\n\n\"Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for\nme.\"\n\n\"They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it\nwould be very small.\"\n\n\"Paul,\" said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour,\n\"if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right.\nThis is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the\nSouthend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft.\" Then she rose up and came to\nhim, and took his arm. \"You will take me down, will you not? It is\ndesolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not\nask you to stay. And I can return by myself.\" She had put both hands\non one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. \"You\nwill do that for old acquaintance sake?\" For a moment or two he made\nno answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was\nendeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and\ncould see no way through it. \"I don't think you will let me ask in\nvain for such a favour as that,\" she said.\n\n\"No;\" he replied. \"I will take you down. When will you go?\" He had\ncockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage\nwould be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps\nthe sands at Lowestoft.\n\n\"When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend,\nand shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman\nwith nothing on hand but Mrs. Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in ten\nminutes?--because I could.\" Paul shook his head and laughed. \"I've\nnamed a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, and\nI'll promise it shall suit.\" Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He\nmust attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before\nthe Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs. Hurtle. Should\nshe meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come\nand fetch her.\n\nThen, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her\ncheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds it\nutterly impossible that he should be prudent,--as to which, when\nhe thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for\nprudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took her\nin his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\nTHE CITY ROAD.\n\n\nThe statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was\nquite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died\nleaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre\nfarm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his\ndaughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled\nhimself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge\nof Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have\nno intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken,\ncorresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. When\ntherefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could\nwith herself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor\nwoman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was\ngood-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at\nany rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But\nshe made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go\nout occasionally. Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. \"I'm\nall right,\" said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he\nnot better come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs.\nPipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided. \"That's as\nit may be, by-and-by,\" said Ruby. Then she told all the story of John\nCrumb:--how she hated John Crumb; how resolved she was that nothing\nshould make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of\nthat night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the\nfarm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her\nbecause she would not have John Crumb. Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable\nwoman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could\nget them;--but bound to live. She gave Ruby very good advice. Of\ncourse if she was \"dead-set\" against John Crumb, that was one thing!\nBut then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as\na decent house over her head,--and victuals. \"What's all the love\nin the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?\" Ruby declared that\nshe knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for\nher. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off\nit. Mrs. Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not\nstrait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover\nshe must. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did\nhave, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed\nwhen she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs.\nPipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to\nthe theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs. Pipkin knew,\nbut probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till\npast midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little about it, attributing\nsuch novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country.\nShe had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when\nshe had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen\nVictoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come.\nRuby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs. Pipkin, having\nanswered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. Sir Felix's\nname had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague\nhad mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her\nown fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without\ninterruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr.\nMontague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord.\nThe Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come,\naccompanied of course by Mr. Mixet,--and after that, as she said to\nherself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little\nPipkins, \"the fat would be in the fire.\"\n\n\"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?\" said Ruby one evening\nto her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half\nmusic-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements\nof the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on\nthose of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself\ncalled it, \"incognito,\" with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk\ncravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix\nentertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this\nattire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a\nglass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby.\nHe was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself,\nhalf-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand\nthing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young\nman. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and\nwalk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to\nbe given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without\nseeing anything of the world? But yet as she sat sipping her lover's\nbrandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in\nthe City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things\nwhich she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did\nnot like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so\nbeautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a\nlittle afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the\npromise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set\nupon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have\nhis arm round her waist was heaven to her! Could it be possible that\nhe and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was\nthis to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she\ncould not live always with Mrs. Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink\nbrandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad\ntherefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that\nsomething was going to happen. \"Who do you suppose was at our place\nyesterday?\"\n\nSir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that\nperhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps\nDidon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of\nhis in London; but the business of his life was about to take him\nto New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an\ninterview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon\nhad heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte,\nand had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though\nhis body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City\nRoad Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. \"Who was it,\nRuby?\"\n\n\"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in\nBungay and Beccles.\"\n\n\"Paul Montague!\"\n\n\"Do you know him, Felix?\"\n\n\"Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly\nin the city--and I know him at home.\"\n\n\"Is he nice?\"\n\n\"Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow.\"\n\n\"He's got a lady friend where I live.\"\n\n\"The devil he has!\" Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury's\nsuit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of\nHetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference\nfor Paul Montague. \"Who is she, Ruby?\"\n\n\"Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's\nan American. She's got lots of money.\"\n\n\"Is Montague going to marry her?\"\n\n\"Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular\nto see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are\nfixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards.\nI wonder whether it'll be the same with you?\"\n\n\"Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?\"\n\n\"Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been\nregular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the\nslowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as\nhe saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John\nCrumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?\"\n\n\"Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you.\"\n\n\"No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't\nsend for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can\ntalk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind\nabout their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as\nI'm with you?\"\n\n\"Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?\"\n\n\"I didn't know. I must say something.\"\n\n\"Tell him you're nothing to him.\"\n\n\"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know\nshe will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that.\"\n\n\"Your aunt does not know?\"\n\n\"No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you\nknow,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do\nyou?\"\n\n\"It's very jolly, I think.\"\n\n\"It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you.\nThat's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be\ndoing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it.\"\n\n\"What is the worst of it?\"\n\n\"I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am.\" And now Ruby burst\nout into tears. \"Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to\nbe a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns\nagain me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night\nthat--\"\n\n\"Bother what she says!\" Felix was not at all anxious to hear what\naunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.\n\n\"She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't\nsuch a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms\nwith a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak\nout his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl\nhas to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man.\"\n\nSir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and\nwater. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter\nand called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making\nany direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York\nvery shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his\nfuture beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther\ndistance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with\nRuby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or\nwould not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not\nhis fault that she had come up to London. She was an \"awfully jolly\ngirl,\" and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than\nthe girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give\nhimself any \"d----d trouble.\" The idea of John Crumb coming up to\nLondon in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably\nhave hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he\nwas doing now. \"Let's go in and have a dance,\" he said.\n\nRuby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything\nin the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room\nwith her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and\nher other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the\nmotion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never\nlacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and\nfeel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better\nworth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be\nlost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would\nhave some answer to her question before she left her lover on that\nnight.\n\n\"And now I must go,\" she said at last. \"You'll see me as far as the\nAngel, won't you?\" Of course he was ready to see her as far as the\nAngel. \"What am I to say to the Squire?\"\n\n\"Say nothing.\"\n\n\"And what am I to say to aunt?\"\n\n\"Say to her? Just say what you have said all along.\"\n\n\"I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say\nsomething. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say\nto me, Felix?\"\n\nHe was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. \"If you\nbother me I shall cut it, you know.\"\n\n\"Cut it!\"\n\n\"Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?\"\n\n\"Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to\ngo, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?\"\n\n\"I'll find a place for you.\"\n\n\"You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before.\nI'd sooner go into service, or--\"\n\n\"Go back to John Crumb.\"\n\n\"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife\nto-morrow, and only be too happy.\"\n\n\"I didn't tell you to come away from him,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw\nyou at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved\nme;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for\nme;--didn't you?\"\n\n\"So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns,\nif that's what it is.\"\n\n\"No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my\nfingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!\"\n\nAs to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that\nwould have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would\nbe out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that\nkind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought,\ndidn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards\nthat they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his\nthroat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation\n\"confounded impudence\" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his\nwife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to\nlower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. \"Marry,\nRuby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I\nknow a trick worth two of that.\"\n\nShe stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of\nthings of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a\nman should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to\ndeclare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a\nthing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to\ngo after any young woman? \"And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir\nFelix?\" she said.\n\n\"Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother.\"\n\n\"Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying\non with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that\nyou don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?\"\n\n\"Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?\"\n\n\"Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls\nto keep him company.\"\n\n\"That's more than you know, Ruby.\"\n\n\"If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman.\nThat's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a\ngirl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure,\" and Ruby began to cry. \"You\nmustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never!\nI think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the\nlowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as\ndon't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets\nto like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a\nyoung man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he\nnever means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever\nwas. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't.\nYou go your way, and I'll go mine.\" In her passion she was as good\nas her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's\ndoor. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which\nshe did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her\nbehalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that\nthe present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her\naunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of\nher.\n\nOn the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs. Pipkin to attend\nthe door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for\nRuby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs. Pipkin had not refused\nto do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine\nthe cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having\nmade up her mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was\nequally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she\ndetermined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young\nlady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and\nfound Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a\ntrap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she\nhad been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover,\nand to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the\nremembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when\nshe could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of\nthe beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering\nherself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid\nof all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which\nshe would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she\nalmost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be\nthat she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more\nin that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she\nhad pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be\nbrought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb.\nBut yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry!\nLooking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of\nthe Squire did not serve to cure her misery.\n\nRoger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding\nher sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was\ncomfortably settled with her aunt. \"We were all alarmed, of course,\nwhen you went away without telling anybody where you were going.\"\n\n\"Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him.\"\n\n\"He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours.\"\n\n\"To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to\nmake a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did,\nthen;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to\ngrandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't\nhave treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the\nroom by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just\ngetting into bed.\"\n\nThe Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be\na violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise\nhim. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had\nnot done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard\na few words from Mrs. Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard\nalso that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was.\nHe also was quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John\nCrumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive\neverything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly\npersevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and \"see the matter\nout,\" as he would say himself, if she did not go back. \"As you found\nyourself obliged to run away,\" said Roger, \"I'm glad that you should\nbe here; but you don't mean to stay here always?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Ruby.\n\n\"You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your\naunt's maid.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no.\"\n\n\"It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a\nman as Mr. Crumb.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like\nMr. Crumb, and I never will like him.\"\n\n\"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and\nI expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless\nyou please.\"\n\n\"Nobody can't, of course, sir.\"\n\n\"But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly\nwon't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you.\"\n\n\"Nobody won't ruin me,\" said Ruby. \"A girl has to look to herself,\nand I mean to look to myself.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one\nas Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to\nthe devil head foremost.\"\n\n\"I ain't a going to the devil,\" said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.\n\n\"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man.\nHe's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged\nto tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but\nwere he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself,\nand would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough\nto be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so\nvile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him\nwithout a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none.\" Ruby\nhad now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her\neyes in one corner of the room. \"That's what Sir Felix Carbury is,\"\nsaid the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more\nenergy, and talk her down more thoroughly. \"And if I understand it\nrightly,\" he continued, \"it is for a vile thing such as he, that you\nhave left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is\nabove the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not\nwear a fine coat.\"\n\n\"I don't care about any man's coat,\" said Ruby; \"but John hasn't ever\na word to say, was it ever so.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"I don't care about any man's coat.\"]\n\n\n\"Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after\nthat fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to\nmake you a bye-word and a disgrace.\" Ruby struggled hard to make some\nopposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of\nspeech at the moment. \"He thinks more of you than of himself, and\nwould give you all that he has. What would that other man give you?\nIf you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you\nby the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any\ndisgrace?\"\n\n\"There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix\nCarbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If\nyou are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that\nman's pardon.\"\n\n\"John Crumb's pardon! No!\"\n\n\"Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly\nI think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and\nregard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change\nyour mind a little.\"\n\nHer mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though\nthe poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon\nher. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble.\nBut she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury,\nand he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and\ntrouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and\nalso a dumb nobility.\n\n\"I'll tell you what will take place,\" continued Roger. \"Mr. Crumb\nwon't put up with this you know.\"\n\n\"He can't do nothing to me, sir.\"\n\n\"That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press\nyou to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd\ninjure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really\nmeans, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you\nthink it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room\ntogether and nobody else by?\"\n\n\"John's mortial strong, Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a\nbrave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?\"\n\n\"He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everything\nagain him.\"\n\n\"You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do\nmyself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who\nloves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and\nbeg his pardon.\"\n\n\"I never will;--never.\"\n\n\"I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that\nyou don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not\ndisgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard\nlike that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But\nI'll let your grandfather know.\"\n\n\"Grandfather don't want me no more.\"\n\n\"And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you\nhave it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix\nCarbury any more.\" Then he took his leave. If he had failed to\nimpress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been\nefficacious in lessening that which she had entertained for Sir\nFelix.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\nTHE COMING ELECTION.\n\n\nThe very greatness of Mr. Melmotte's popularity, the extent of\nthe admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his\ncommercial enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar\nbitterness in the opposition that was organised against him at\nWestminster. As the high mountains are intersected by deep valleys,\nas puritanism in one age begets infidelity in the next, as in many\ncountries the thickness of the winter's ice will be in proportion\nto the number of the summer musquitoes, so was the keenness of the\nhostility displayed on this occasion in proportion to the warmth of\nthe support which was manifested. As the great man was praised, so\nalso was he abused. As he was a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend\nto others. And indeed there was hardly any other way in which it\nwas possible to carry on the contest against him. From the moment\nin which Mr. Melmotte had declared his purpose of standing for\nWestminster in the Conservative interest, an attempt was made to\ndrive him down the throats of the electors by clamorous assertions of\nhis unprecedented commercial greatness. It seemed that there was but\none virtue in the world, commercial enterprise,--and that Melmotte\nwas its prophet. It seemed, too, that the orators and writers of the\nday intended all Westminster to believe that Melmotte treated his\ngreat affairs in a spirit very different from that which animates the\nbosoms of merchants in general. He had risen above any feeling of\npersonal profit. His wealth was so immense that there was no longer\nplace for anxiety on that score. He already possessed,--so it was\nsaid,--enough to found a dozen families, and he had but one daughter!\nBut by carrying on the enormous affairs which he held in his hands,\nhe would be able to open up new worlds, to afford relief to the\noppressed nationalities of the over-populated old countries. He had\nseen how small was the good done by the Peabodys and the Bairds, and,\nresolving to lend no ear to charities and religions, was intent on\nprojects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful bread by the\nmoderate sweat of their brows. He was the head and front of the\nrailway which was to regenerate Mexico. It was presumed that the\ncontemplated line from ocean to ocean across British America would\nbecome a fact in his hands. It was he who was to enter into terms\nwith the Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast\ncountry. He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from\nMoscow to Khiva. He had a fleet,--or soon would have a fleet of\nemigrant ships,--ready to carry every discontented Irishman out of\nIreland to whatever quarter of the globe the Milesian might choose\nfor the exercise of his political principles. It was known that he\nhad already floated a company for laying down a submarine wire from\nPenzance to Point de Galle, round the Cape of Good Hope,--so that,\nin the event of general wars, England need be dependent on no other\ncountry for its communications with India. And then there was the\nphilanthropic scheme for buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs\nfrom the Khedive of Egypt for thirty millions sterling,--the\ncompensation to consist of the concession of a territory about four\ntimes as big as Great Britain in the lately annexed country on the\ngreat African lakes. It may have been the case that some of these\nthings were as yet only matters of conversation,--speculations as to\nwhich Mr. Melmotte's mind and imagination had been at work, rather\nthan his pocket or even his credit; but they were all sufficiently\nmatured to find their way into the public press, and to be used as\nstrong arguments why Melmotte should become member of Parliament for\nWestminster.\n\nAll this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves\ncalled upon by the demands of their political position to oppose Mr.\nMelmotte. You can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be a\ndemi-devil. These very persons, the leading Liberals of the leading\nborough in England as they called themselves, would perhaps have\ncared little about Melmotte's antecedents had it not become their\nduty to fight him as a Conservative. Had the great man found at the\nlast moment that his own British politics had been liberal in their\nnature, these very enemies would have been on his committee. It was\ntheir business to secure the seat. And as Melmotte's supporters began\nthe battle with an attempt at what the Liberals called \"bounce,\"--to\ncarry the borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of\ntheir candidate's virtues,--the other party was driven to make\nsome enquiries as to that candidate's antecedents. They quickly\nwarmed to the work, and were not less loud in exposing the Satan\nof speculation, than had been the Conservatives in declaring the\ncommercial Jove. Emissaries were sent to Paris and Francfort, and\nthe wires were used to Vienna and New York. It was not difficult\nto collect stories,--true or false; and some quiet men, who merely\nlooked on at the game, expressed an opinion that Melmotte might have\nwisely abstained from the glories of Parliament.\n\nNevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a proper\nLiberal candidate to run against him. The nobleman who had been\nelevated out of his seat by the death of his father had been a great\nWhig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense wealth and\nof popularity equal to its possessions. One of that family might\nhave contested the borough at a much less expense than any other\nperson,--and to them the expense would have mattered but little.\nBut there was no such member of it forthcoming. Lord This and Lord\nThat,--and the Honourable This and the Honourable That, sons of other\ncognate Lords,--already had seats which they were unwilling to vacate\nin the present state of affairs. There was but one other session for\nthe existing Parliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in\nMelmotte's favour. Many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were\neither afraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence. Lord Buntingford\nwas asked, and he and his family were good old Whigs. But he was\nnephew to Lord Alfred Grendall, first cousin to Miles Grendall, and\nabstained on behalf of his relatives. An overture was made to Sir\nDamask Monogram, who certainly could afford the contest. But Sir\nDamask did not see his way. Melmotte was a working bee, while he was\na drone,--and he did not wish to have the difference pointed out by\nMr. Melmotte's supporters. Moreover, he preferred his yacht and his\nfour-in-hand.\n\nAt last a candidate was selected, whose nomination and whose consent\nto occupy the position created very great surprise in the London\nworld. The press had of course taken up the matter very strongly. The\n\"Morning Breakfast Table\" supported Mr. Melmotte with all its weight.\nThere were people who said that this support was given by Mr. Broune\nunder the influence of Lady Carbury, and that Lady Carbury in this\nway endeavoured to reconcile the great man to a marriage between\nhis daughter and Sir Felix. But it is more probable that Mr. Broune\nsaw,--or thought that he saw,--which way the wind sat, and that he\nsupported the commercial hero because he felt that the hero would be\nsupported by the country at large. In praising a book, or putting\nforemost the merits of some official or military claimant, or writing\nup a charity,--in some small matter of merely personal interest,--the\nEditor of the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" might perhaps allow himself\nto listen to a lady whom he loved. But he knew his work too well to\njeopardize his paper by such influences in any matter which might\nprobably become interesting to the world of his readers. There was\na strong belief in Melmotte. The clubs thought that he would be\nreturned for Westminster. The dukes and duchesses fêted him. The\ncity,--even the city was showing a wavering disposition to come\nround. Bishops begged for his name on the list of promoters of their\npet schemes. Royalty without stint was to dine at his table. Melmotte\nhimself was to sit at the right hand of the brother of the Sun and\nof the uncle of the Moon, and British Royalty was to be arranged\nopposite, so that every one might seem to have the place of most\nhonour. How could a conscientious Editor of a \"Morning Breakfast\nTable,\" seeing how things were going, do other than support Mr.\nMelmotte? In fair justice it may be well doubted whether Lady Carbury\nhad exercised any influence in the matter.\n\nBut the \"Evening Pulpit\" took the other side. Now this was the\nmore remarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch as\nthe \"Evening Pulpit\" had never supported the Liberal interest.\nAs was said in the first chapter of this work, the motto of that\nnewspaper implied that it was to be conducted on principles of\nabsolute independence. Had the \"Evening Pulpit,\" like some of its\ncontemporaries, lived by declaring from day to day that all Liberal\nelements were godlike, and all their opposites satanic, as a matter\nof course the same line of argument would have prevailed as to the\nWestminster election. But as it had not been so, the vigour of the\n\"Evening Pulpit\" on this occasion was the more alarming and the\nmore noticeable,--so that the short articles which appeared almost\ndaily in reference to Mr. Melmotte were read by everybody. Now they\nwho are concerned in the manufacture of newspapers are well aware\nthat censure is infinitely more attractive than eulogy,--but they\nare quite as well aware that it is more dangerous. No proprietor\nor editor was ever brought before the courts at the cost of ever\nso many hundred pounds,--which if things go badly may rise to\nthousands,--because he had attributed all but divinity to some very\npoor specimen of mortality. No man was ever called upon for damages\nbecause he had attributed grand motives. It might be well for\npolitics and literature and art,--and for truth in general, if it\nwas possible to do so. But a new law of libel must be enacted before\nsuch salutary proceedings can take place. Censure on the other hand\nis open to very grave perils. Let the Editor have been ever so\nconscientious, ever so beneficent,--even ever so true,--let it be\never so clear that what he has written has been written on behalf\nof virtue, and that he has misstated no fact, exaggerated no fault,\nnever for a moment been allured from public to private matters,--and\nhe may still be in danger of ruin. A very long purse, or else a\nvery high courage is needed for the exposure of such conduct as the\n\"Evening Pulpit\" attributed to Mr. Melmotte. The paper took up this\nline suddenly. After the second article Mr. Alf sent back to Mr.\nMiles Grendall, who in the matter was acting as Mr. Melmotte's\nsecretary, the ticket of invitation for the dinner, with a note from\nMr. Alf stating that circumstances connected with the forthcoming\nelection for Westminster could not permit him to have the great\nhonour of dining at Mr. Melmotte's table in the presence of the\nEmperor of China. Miles Grendall showed the note to the dinner\ncommittee, and, without consultation with Mr. Melmotte, it\nwas decided that the ticket should be sent to the Editor of a\nthorough-going Conservative journal. This conduct on the part of the\n\"Evening Pulpit\" astonished the world considerably; but the world was\nmore astonished when it was declared that Mr. Ferdinand Alf himself\nwas going to stand for Westminster on the Liberal interest.\n\nVarious suggestions were made. Some said that as Mr. Alf had a large\nshare in the newspaper, and as its success was now an established\nfact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious position which\nhe filled, and was therefore free to go into Parliament. Others were\nof opinion that this was the beginning of a new era in literature,\nof a new order of things, and that from this time forward editors\nwould frequently be found in Parliament, if editors were employed of\nsufficient influence in the world to find constituencies. Mr. Broune\nwhispered confidentially to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool for\nhis pains, and that he was carried away by pride. \"Very clever,--and\ndashing,\" said Mr. Broune, \"but he never had ballast.\" Lady Carbury\nshook her head. She did not want to give up Mr. Alf if she could help\nit. He had never said a civil word of her in his paper;--but still\nshe had an idea that it was well to be on good terms with so great a\npower. She entertained a mysterious awe for Mr. Alf,--much in excess\nof any similar feeling excited by Mr. Broune, in regard to whom\nher awe had been much diminished since he had made her an offer of\nmarriage. Her sympathies as to the election of course were with Mr.\nMelmotte. She believed in him thoroughly. She still thought that his\nnod might be the means of making Felix,--or if not his nod, then his\nmoney without the nod.\n\n\"I suppose he is very rich,\" she said, speaking to Mr. Broune\nrespecting Mr. Alf.\n\n\"I dare say he has put by something. But this election will cost him\n£10,000;--and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allow\nanother £10,000 for action for libel. They've already declared that\nthey will indict the paper.\"\n\n\"Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?\" This was a\nmatter as to which Mr. Melmotte was supposed to have retired from\nParis not with clean hands.\n\n\"I don't believe the 'Evening Pulpit' can prove it,--and I'm sure\nthat they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or\nfour thousand pounds. That's a game in which nobody wins but the\nlawyers. I wonder at Alf. I should have thought that he would have\nknown how to get all said that he wanted to have said without running\nwith his head into the lion's mouth. He has been so clever up to\nthis! God knows he has been bitter enough, but he has always sailed\nwithin the wind.\"\n\nMr. Alf had a powerful committee. By this time an animus in regard to\nthe election had been created strong enough to bring out the men on\nboth sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there might only have\nbeen a warmth or possibly frigidity. The Whig Marquises and the Whig\nBarons came forward, and with them the liberal professional men,\nand the tradesmen who had found that party to answer best, and the\ndemocratical mechanics. If Melmotte's money did not, at last, utterly\ndemoralise the lower class of voters, there would still be a good\nfight. And there was a strong hope that, under the ballot, Melmotte's\nmoney might be taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting.\nIt was found upon trial that Mr. Alf was a good speaker. And though\nhe still conducted the \"Evening Pulpit,\" he made time for addressing\nmeetings of the constituency almost daily. And in his speeches he\nnever spared Melmotte. No one, he said, had a greater reverence for\nmercantile grandeur than himself. But let them take care that the\ngrandeur was grand. How great would be the disgrace to such a borough\nas that of Westminster if it should find that it had been taken in\nby a false spirit of speculation and that it had surrendered itself\nto gambling when it had thought to do honour to honest commerce.\nThis, connected as of course it was, with the articles in the paper,\nwas regarded as very open speaking. And it had its effect. Some men\nbegan to say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to deserve\nconfidence in his riches, and the Lord Mayor was already beginning to\nthink that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse.\n\nMelmotte's committee was also very grand. If Alf was supported by\nMarquises and Barons, he was supported by Dukes and Earls. But his\nspeaking in public did not of itself inspire much confidence. He\nhad very little to say when he attempted to explain the political\nprinciples on which he intended to act. After a little he confined\nhimself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the other\nside, and even in doing that was reiterative rather than diffusive.\nLet them prove it. He defied them to prove it. Englishmen were too\ngreat, too generous, too honest, too noble,--the men of Westminster\nespecially were a great deal too high-minded to pay any attention to\nsuch charges as these till they were proved. Then he began again. Let\nthem prove it. Such accusations as these were mere lies till they\nwere proved. He did not say much himself in public as to actions\nfor libel,--but assurances were made on his behalf to the electors,\nespecially by Lord Alfred Grendall and his son, that as soon as the\nelection was over all speakers and writers would be indicted for\nlibel, who should be declared by proper legal advice to have made\nthemselves liable to such action. The \"Evening Pulpit\" and Mr. Alf\nwould of course be the first victims.\n\nThe dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th. The election for the\nborough was to be held on Tuesday the 9th. It was generally thought\nthat the proximity of the two days had been arranged with the view of\nenhancing Melmotte's expected triumph. But such in truth was not the\ncase. It had been an accident, and an accident that was distressing\nto some of the Melmottites. There was much to be done about the\ndinner,--which could not be omitted; and much also as to the\nelection,--which was imperative. The two Grendalls, father and son,\nfound themselves to be so driven that the world seemed for them to be\nturned topsey-turvey. The elder had in old days been accustomed to\nelectioneering in the interest of his own family, and had declared\nhimself willing to make himself useful on behalf of Mr. Melmotte. But\nhe found Westminster to be almost too much for him. He was called\nhere and sent there, till he was very near rebellion. \"If this goes\non much longer I shall cut it,\" he said to his son.\n\n\"Think of me, governor,\" said the son. \"I have to be in the city four\nor five times a week.\"\n\n\"You've a regular salary.\"\n\n\"Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. What's my salary\nto the shares you've had? The thing is;--will it last?\"\n\n\"How last?\"\n\n\"There are a good many who say that Melmotte will burst up.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" said Lord Alfred. \"They don't know what they're\ntalking about. There are too many in the same boat to let him burst\nup. It would be the bursting up of half London. But I shall tell him\nafter this that he must make it easier. He wants to know who's to\nhave every ticket for the dinner, and there's nobody to tell him\nexcept me. And I've got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help\nme except that fellow from the Herald's office. I don't know about\npeople's rank. Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or\na fellow who writes books?\" Miles suggested that the fellow from the\nHerald's office would know all about that, and that his father need\nnot trouble himself with petty details.\n\n\"And you shall come to us for three days,--after it's over,\" said\nLady Monogram to Miss Longestaffe; a proposition to which Miss\nLongestaffe acceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as\nthough a favour had been conferred upon her. Now the reason why Lady\nMonogram had changed her mind as to inviting her old friend, and thus\nthrew open her hospitality for three whole days to the poor young\nlady who had disgraced herself by staying with the Melmottes, was as\nfollows. Miss Longestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for\nMadame Melmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the Melmottes\nrisen in general appreciation, that Lady Monogram had found that she\nwas bound, on behalf of her own position in society, to be present\non that occasion. It would not do that her name should not be in the\nprinted list of the guests. Therefore she had made a serviceable\nbargain with her old friend Miss Longestaffe. She was to have her two\ntickets for the reception, and Miss Longestaffe was to be received\nfor three days as a guest by Lady Monogram. It had also been conceded\nthat at any rate on one of these nights Lady Monogram should take\nMiss Longestaffe out with her, and that she should herself receive\ncompany on another. There was perhaps something slightly painful at\nthe commencement of the negotiation; but such feelings soon fade\naway, and Lady Monogram was quite a woman of the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\nMR. MELMOTTE IS PRESSED FOR TIME.\n\n\nAbout this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election, Mr.\nLongestaffe came up to town and saw Mr. Melmotte very frequently. He\ncould not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to\nthe great financier, nor had he any establishment in town; but he\nslept at an hotel and lived at the Carlton. He was quite delighted to\nfind that his new friend was an honest Conservative, and he himself\nproposed the honest Conservative at the club. There was some idea of\nelecting Mr. Melmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club\ncould not go beyond its rule, and could only admit Mr. Melmotte\nout of his regular turn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the\nHouse of Commons. Mr. Melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant,\nwas heard to declare that if the club did not take him when he was\nwilling to be taken, it might do without him. If not elected at once,\nhe should withdraw his name. So great was his prestige at this moment\nwith his own party that there were some, Mr. Longestaffe among the\nnumber, who pressed the thing on the committee. Mr. Melmotte was not\nlike other men. It was a great thing to have Mr. Melmotte in the\nparty. Mr. Melmotte's financial capabilities would in themselves be\na tower of strength. Rules were not made to control the club in a\nmatter of such importance as this. A noble lord, one among seven who\nhad been named as a fit leader of the Upper House on the Conservative\nside in the next session, was asked to take the matter up; and men\nthought that the thing might have been done had he complied. But he\nwas old-fashioned, perhaps pig-headed; and the club for the time lost\nthe honour of entertaining Mr. Melmotte.\n\nIt may be remembered that Mr. Longestaffe had been anxious to become\none of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was rather\nsnubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to Mr. Melmotte.\nLike other great men, Mr. Melmotte liked to choose his own time for\nbestowing favours. Since that request was made the proper time had\ncome, and he had now intimated to Mr. Longestaffe that in a somewhat\naltered condition of things there would be a place for him at the\nBoard, and that he and his brother directors would be delighted to\navail themselves of his assistance. The alliance between Mr. Melmotte\nand Mr. Longestaffe had become very close. The Melmottes had visited\nthe Longestaffes at Caversham. Georgiana Longestaffe was staying\nwith Madame Melmotte in London. The Melmottes were living in Mr.\nLongestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month at a very\nhigh rent. Mr. Longestaffe now had a seat at Mr. Melmotte's board.\nAnd Mr. Melmotte had bought Mr. Longestaffe's estate at Pickering\non terms very favourable to the Longestaffes. It had been suggested\nto Mr. Longestaffe by Mr. Melmotte that he had better qualify for\nhis seat at the Board by taking shares in the Company to the amount\nof--perhaps two or three thousand pounds, and Mr. Longestaffe had\nof course consented. There would be no need of any transaction in\nabsolute cash. The shares could of course be paid for out of Mr.\nLongestaffe's half of the purchase money for Pickering Park, and\ncould remain for the present in Mr. Melmotte's hands. To this also\nMr. Longestaffe had consented, not quite understanding why the scrip\nshould not be made over to him at once.\n\nIt was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that\nno ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. Great\npurchases were made and great transactions apparently completed\nwithout the signing even of a cheque. Mr. Longestaffe found himself\nto be afraid even to give a hint to Mr. Melmotte about ready money.\nIn speaking of all such matters Melmotte seemed to imply that\neverything necessary had been done, when he had said that it was\ndone. Pickering had been purchased and the title-deeds made over\nto Mr. Melmotte; but the £80,000 had not been paid,--had not been\nabsolutely paid, though of course Mr. Melmotte's note assenting\nto the terms was security sufficient for any reasonable man. The\nproperty had been mortgaged, though not heavily, and Mr. Melmotte\nhad no doubt satisfied the mortgagee; but there was still a sum of\n£50,000 to come, of which Dolly was to have one half and the other\nwas to be employed in paying off Mr. Longestaffe's debts to tradesmen\nand debts to the bank. It would have been very pleasant to have had\nthis at once,--but Mr. Longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing\nsuch a man as Mr. Melmotte, and was partly conscious of the gradual\nconsummation of a new æra in money matters. \"If your banker is\npressing you, refer him to me,\" Mr. Melmotte had said. As for many\nyears past we have exchanged paper instead of actual money for our\ncommodities, so now it seemed that, under the new Melmotte régime, an\nexchange of words was to suffice.\n\nBut Dolly wanted his money. Dolly, idle as he was, foolish as he was,\ndissipated as he was and generally indifferent to his debts, liked to\nhave what belonged to him. It had all been arranged. £5,000 would pay\noff all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed of\nmoney in hand, while the other £20,000 would make his own property\nfree. There was a charm in this which awakened even Dolly, and for\nthe time almost reconciled him to his father's society. But now a\nshade of impatience was coming over him. He had actually gone down\nto Caversham to arrange the terms with his father,--and had in fact\nmade his own terms. His father had been unable to move him, and\nhad consequently suffered much in spirit. Dolly had been almost\ntriumphant,--thinking that the money would come on the next day, or\nat any rate during the next week. Now he came to his father early in\nthe morning,--at about two o'clock,--to enquire what was being done.\nHe had not as yet been made blessed with a single ten-pound note in\nhis hand, as the result of the sale.\n\n\"Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?\" he asked somewhat abruptly.\n\n\"Yes;--I'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to the\nBoard.\"\n\n\"You're going in for that, are you, sir? Do they pay anything?\"\n\n\"I believe not.\"\n\n\"Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it. It's a sort of Beargarden\naffair.\"\n\n\"A bear-garden affair, Adolphus. How so?\"\n\n\"I mean the club. We had them all there for dinner one day, and a\njolly dinner we gave them. Miles Grendall and old Alfred belong to\nit. I don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going.\nI'd make them fork out something if I took the trouble of going all\nthat way.\"\n\n\"I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things.\"\n\n\"No, I don't. I don't understand much about business, I know. What I\nwant to understand is, when Melmotte is going to pay up this money.\"\n\n\"I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks,\" said the father.\n\n\"I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. You'd\nbetter tell him not. A cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to\nmine is about the best thing going. You'll be in the city to-morrow,\nand you'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get\nSquercum to do it.\" Mr. Squercum was a lawyer whom Dolly had employed\nof late years much to the annoyance of his parent. Mr. Squercum's\nname was odious to Mr. Longestaffe.\n\n\"I beg you'll do nothing of the kind. It will be very foolish if you\ndo;--perhaps ruinous.\"\n\n\"Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else,\" said Dolly as he left\nthe room. The father knew the son, and was quite sure that Squercum\nwould have his finger in the pie unless the money were paid quickly.\nWhen Dolly had taken an idea into his head, no power on earth,--no\npower at least of which the father could avail himself,--would turn\nhim.\n\nOn that same day Melmotte received two visits in the city from two\nof his fellow directors. At the time he was very busy. Though his\nelectioneering speeches were neither long nor pithy, still he had to\nthink of them beforehand. Members of his Committee were always trying\nto see him. Orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the house\ncould not be given by Lord Alfred without some reference to him.\nAnd then those gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in\nthe last chapter could not be adjusted without much labour on his\npart. His hands were not empty, but still he saw each of these young\nmen,--for a few minutes. \"My dear young friend, what can I do for\nyou?\" he said to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so that Sir Felix also\nshould remain standing.\n\n\"About that money, Mr. Melmotte?\"\n\n\"What money, my dear fellow? You see that a good many money matters\npass through my hands.\"\n\n\"The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, and as\nthe shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back.\"\n\n\"It was only the other day you had £200,\" said Melmotte, showing that\nhe could apply his memory to small transactions when he pleased.\n\n\"Exactly;--and you might as well let me have the £800.\"\n\n\"I've ordered the shares;--gave the order to my broker the other\nday.\"\n\n\"Then I'd better take the shares,\" said Sir Felix, feeling that it\nmight very probably be that day fortnight before he could start for\nNew York. \"Could I get them, Mr. Melmotte?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of my\ntime when you come to me about such an affair as this.\"\n\n\"I'd like to have the money or the shares,\" said Sir Felix, who was\nnot specially averse to quarrelling with Mr. Melmotte now that he\nhad resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York in\ndirect opposition to his written promise. Their quarrel would be so\nthoroughly internecine when the departure should be discovered, that\nany present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. What Felix\nthought of now was simply his money, and the best means of getting it\nout of Melmotte's hands.\n\n\"You're a spendthrift,\" said Melmotte, apparently relenting, \"and I'm\nafraid a gambler. I suppose I must give you £200 more on account.\"\n\nSir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented to\ntake the sum offered. As he pocketed the cheque he asked for the name\nof the brokers who were employed to buy the shares. But here Melmotte\ndemurred. \"No, my friend,\" said Melmotte; \"you are only entitled to\nshares for £600 pounds now. I will see that the thing is put right.\"\nSo Sir Felix departed with £200 only. Marie had said that she could\nget £200. Perhaps if he bestirred himself and wrote to some of\nMiles's big relations he could obtain payment of a part of that\ngentleman's debt to him.\n\nSir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul Montague\ncoming up. Carbury, on the spur of the moment, thought that he would\n\"take a rise\" as he called it out of Montague. \"What's this I hear\nabout a lady at Islington?\" he asked.\n\n\"Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?\"\n\n\"A little bird. There are always little birds about telling of\nladies. I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on your coming\nmarriage.\"\n\n\"Then you've been told an infernal falsehood,\" said Montague passing\non. He paused a moment and added, \"I don't know who can have told\nyou, but if you hear it again, I'll trouble you to contradict it.\"\nAs he was waiting in Melmotte's outer room while the Duke's nephew\nwent in to see whether it was the great man's pleasure to see him, he\nremembered whence Carbury must have heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle. Of\ncourse the rumour had come through Ruby Ruggles.\n\nMiles Grendall brought out word that the great man would see Mr.\nMontague; but he added a caution. \"He's awfully full of work just\nnow,--you won't forget that;--will you?\" Montague assured the duke's\nnephew that he would be concise, and was shown in.\n\n\"I should not have troubled you,\" said Paul, \"only that I understood\nthat I was to see you before the Board met.\"\n\n\"Exactly;--of course. It was quite necessary,--only you see I am a\nlittle busy. If this d----d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. It's\na deal easier to make a treaty with an Emperor, than to give him a\ndinner; I can tell you that. Well;--let me see. Oh;--I was proposing\nthat you should go out to Pekin?\"\n\n\"To Mexico.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes;--to Mexico. I've so many things running in my head!\nWell;--if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up\nsomething of instructions. You'd know better, however, than we can\ntell you what to do. You'll see Fisker, of course. You and Fisker\nwill manage it. The chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses;\neh? We must get that passed at the next Board.\"\n\nMr. Melmotte had been so quick that Montague had been unable to\ninterrupt him. \"There need be no trouble about that, Mr. Melmotte, as\nI have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed!\"\n\nThere had been a shade of doubt on Montague's mind, till the tone\nin which Melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his ears. The\nreference to the expenses disgusted him altogether. \"No;--even did\nI see my way to do any good in America my duties here would not be\ncompatible with the undertaking.\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? What\ngood are you doing the Company? If you do stay, I hope you'll be\nunanimous; that's all;--or perhaps you intend to go out. If that's\nit, I'll look to your money. I think I told you that before.\"\n\n\"That, Mr. Melmotte, is what I should prefer.\"\n\n\"Very well,--very well. I'll arrange it. Sorry to lose you,--that's\nall. Miles, isn't Mr. Goldsheiner waiting to see me?\"\n\n\"You're a little too quick, Mr. Melmotte,\" said Paul.\n\n\"A man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir.\"\n\n\"But I must be precise. I cannot tell you as a fact that I shall\nwithdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend with\nwhom I am consulting. I hardly yet know what my duty may be.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty. It cannot be your\nduty to make known out of that Board-room any of the affairs of the\nCompany which you have learned in that Board-room. It cannot be your\nduty to divulge the circumstances of the Company or any differences\nwhich may exist between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman\nwho is a stranger to the Company. It cannot be your duty--.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I\ncan see my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board\nwithout understanding what duties I should have to perform--.\"\n\n\"Very much in fault, I should say,\" replied Melmotte, whose arrogance\nin the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him.\n\n\"But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or how\nfar I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do not\nwant advice from you.\"\n\n\"Very well;--very well. I can't ask you to stay, because a partner\nfrom the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is waiting to\nsee me, about matters which are rather more important than this of\nyours.\" Montague had said what he had to say, and departed.\n\nOn the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the meeting of\nthe Board of Directors, old Mr. Longestaffe called in Abchurch Lane.\nHe was received very civilly by Miles Grendall, and asked to sit\ndown. Mr. Melmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over\nto the offices of the railway, and introduce him to the Board. Mr.\nLongestaffe, with some shyness, intimated his desire to have a few\nmoments conversation with the chairman before the Board met. Fearing\nhis son, especially fearing Squercum, he had made up his mind to\nsuggest that the little matter about Pickering Park should be\nsettled. Miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him,\nbut that at the present moment the chief secretary of the Russian\nLegation was with Mr. Melmotte. Either the chief secretary was very\ntedious with his business, or else other big men must have come in,\nfor Mr. Longestaffe was not relieved till he was summoned to walk off\nto the Board five minutes after the hour at which the Board should\nhave met. He thought that he could explain his views in the street;\nbut on the stairs they were joined by Mr. Cohenlupe, and in three\nminutes they were in the Board-room. Mr. Longestaffe was then\npresented, and took the chair opposite to Miles Grendall. Montague\nwas not there, but had sent a letter to the secretary explaining that\nfor reasons with which the chairman was acquainted he should absent\nhimself from the present meeting. \"All right,\" said Melmotte. \"I know\nall about it. Go on. I'm not sure but that Mr. Montague's retirement\nfrom among us may be an advantage. He could not be made to understand\nthat unanimity in such an enterprise as this is essential. I am\nconfident that the new director whom I have had the pleasure of\nintroducing to you to-day will not sin in the same direction.\" Then\nMr. Melmotte bowed and smiled very sweetly on Mr. Longestaffe.\n\nMr. Longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was\ndone, and how very little he had been called on to do. Miles Grendall\nhad read something out of a book which he had been unable to follow.\nThen the chairman had read some figures. Mr. Cohenlupe had declared\nthat their prosperity was unprecedented;--and the Board was over.\nWhen Mr. Longestaffe explained to Miles Grendall that he still wished\nto speak to Mr. Melmotte, Miles explained to him that the chairman\nhad been obliged to run off to a meeting of gentlemen connected with\nthe interior of Africa, which was now being held at the Cannon Street\nHotel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\nROGER CARBURY AND HIS TWO FRIENDS.\n\n\nRoger Carbury having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained that\nshe was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt,\nreturned to Carbury. He had given the girl his advice, and had done\nso in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. He had frightened\nher, and had also frightened Mrs. Pipkin. He had taught Mrs. Pipkin\nto believe that the new dispensation was not yet so completely\nestablished as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece's\nconduct. Having done so much, and feeling that there was no more to\nbe done, he returned home. It was out of the question that he should\ntake Ruby with him. In the first place she would not have gone. And\nthen,--had she gone,--he would not have known where to bestow her.\nFor it was now understood throughout Bungay,--and the news had spread\nto Beccles,--that old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter\nshould never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm. The squire on\nhis return home heard all the news from his own housekeeper. John\nCrumb had been at the farm and there had been a fierce quarrel\nbetween him and the old man. The old man had called Ruby by every\nname that is most distasteful to a woman, and John had stormed and\nhad sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his\nage. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby,--or if he did he was\nready to forgive that harm. But as for the Baro-nite;--the Baro-nite\nhad better look to himself! Old Ruggles had declared that Ruby\nshould never have a shilling of his money;--whereupon Crumb had\nanathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was\nan old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty.\nRoger at once sent over to Bungay for the dealer in meal, who was\nwith him early on the following morning.\n\n\"Did ye find her, squoire?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, Mr. Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs.\nPipkin, at Islington.\"\n\n\"Eh, now;--look at that.\"\n\n\"You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London.\"\n\n\"Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire. I a' heard tell of Mrs. Pipkin, but I\nnever see'd her.\"\n\n\"I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there.\" John\nCrumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming of\nhis own intellect. \"Of course if she was to go to London it was the\nproper thing for her to do.\"\n\n\"I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along.\nDarned if I didn't. You ask Mixet, squoire,--him as is baker down\nBardsey Lane. I allays guv' it her that she'd do the thing as was\nright. But how about she and the Baro-nite?\"\n\nRoger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. \"I\nsuppose the old man down here did ill use her?\"\n\n\"Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged her\nabout awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like.\nD'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on,\nMuster Carbury?\"\n\n\"I think she's a good girl, if you mean that.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire. Tho',\nsquoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. I\nallays had a leaning to you, squoire; but I'll more nor lean to you,\nnow. I've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in Bungay\nsaid she warn't--; well, I was there, and ready.\"\n\n\"I hope nobody has said so.\"\n\n\"You can't stop them women, squoire. There ain't no dropping into\nthem. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house\nto-morrow, and what 'll it matter her then what they say? But,\nsquoire,--did ye hear if the Baro-nite had been a' hanging about that\nplace?\"\n\n\"About Islington, you mean.\"\n\n\"He goes a hanging about; he do. He don't come out straight forrard,\nand tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. There ain't\none in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals\nand all the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles.\nHuggery-Muggery is pi'son to me, squoire.\"\n\n\"We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up\nyour mind.\"\n\n\"I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is her\naunt now, squoire?\"\n\n\"She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say.\"\n\n\"She won't let the Baro-nite come there?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Roger, who felt that he was hardly dealing\nsincerely with this most sincere of mealmen. Hitherto he had shuffled\noff every question that had been asked him about Felix, though he\nknew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. \"Mrs.\nPipkin won't let him come there.\"\n\n\"If I was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them\nlodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers\nlike, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side,\nsquoire?\"\n\n\"I think she'll try to do her duty without that.\"\n\n\"They do like things the like o' that; any ways I'll go up, squoire,\narter Sax'nam market, and see how things is lying.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go just yet, Mr. Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't\nforgotten the scene at the farm yet.\"\n\n\"I said nothing as warn't as kind as kind.\"\n\n\"But her own perversity runs in her own head. If you had been unkind\nshe could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she\nwas cross, she can't forgive that.\" John Crumb again scratched his\nhead, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more\ngauging than he had yet given to it. \"And to tell you the truth, my\nfriend, I think that a little hardship up at Mrs. Pipkin's will do\nher good.\"\n\n\"Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?\" asked John Crumb, with\nintense anxiety.\n\n\"I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But of\ncourse she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or four\nchildren to look after.\"\n\n\"That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?\" said\nJohn Crumb grinning.\n\n\"As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her\nin another sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should\nnot be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in\nBungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen in London.\"\n\n\"My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster,\nmost as big as any in Bungay.\"\n\n\"I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it\nherself. Let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her\nagain in a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters\nthen than she is now.\"\n\n\"But,--the Baro-nite!\"\n\n\"Mrs. Pipkin will allow nothing of that.\"\n\n\"Girls is so 'cute. Ruby is awful 'cute. It makes me feel as though\nI had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights\nand thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! If I\nthought that she'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury.\nThey'd have to make an eend o' me at Bury, if it was that way. They\nwould then.\"\n\nRoger assured him again and again that he believed Ruby to be a good\ngirl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce\nMrs. Pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made\nno promise that he would abstain from his journey to London after\nSaxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that his\npurpose of doing so was shaken. He was still however resolved to send\nMrs. Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose\nof getting Mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order.\nJohn Crumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in\nliterary acquirements. He was able to make out a bill for meal or\npollards, but did little beyond that in the way of writing letters.\n\nThis happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon Roger\nCarbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church matters\nat which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting was over\nhe dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or three\nneighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the\nlong strand which has made Lowestoft what it is. It was now just the\nend of June, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not\nas yet flocking to the sea-shore. Every shopkeeper in every little\ntown through the country now follows the fashion set by Parliament\nand abstains from his annual holiday till August or September. The\nplace therefore was by no means full. Here and there a few of the\ntownspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to the\nsea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion,\nhad come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which had\nbeen described as being small and insignificant,--and making up only\na hundred beds. Roger Carbury, whose house was not many miles distant\nfrom Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter\nthere for a while when any cause brought him into the town. Now he\nwas walking close down upon the marge of the tide,--so that the last\nlittle roll of the rising water should touch his feet,--with his\nhands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the\nshore, when he came upon a couple who were standing with their backs\nto the land, looking forth together upon the waves. He was close\nto them before he saw them, and before they had seen him. Then he\nperceived that the man was his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on\nPaul's arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark\nstraw hat on her head;--very simple in her attire, but yet a woman\nwhom it would be impossible to pass without notice. The lady of\ncourse was Mrs. Hurtle.\n\nPaul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had\nbeen natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when fault\nhad been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands\nwhich were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot which\nMrs. Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken\ndown out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to\nbe charmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had\nhad no right to expect that Mrs. Pipkin should understand what sort\nof place she needed. But Paul would understand,--and had understood.\n\"I think the hotel charming,\" she said. \"I don't know what you\nmean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite\ngorgeous, and the people so civil!\" Hotel people always are civil\nbefore the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should\nreturn to London by the mail train which started about an hour after\nhis arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the\nmorning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was\nSunday, and of course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he\nhad said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had\nresolved to say. Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury\ncame upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some\nprobably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the\nendless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too,\nas she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in\nmoonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of\nthem there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. We\nknow that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well\ncooked. And so did Paul like the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle because\nher attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in\nher dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy\nsharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her\nlips. He liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of\nher arm, and the perfume from her hair,--though he would have given\nall that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some\nimpassable gulf. As he had to be hanged,--and this woman's continued\npresence would be as bad as death to him,--he liked to have his meal\nwell dressed.\n\nHe certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and the\nclose neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;--and now he felt his folly. As\nsoon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then\nleaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his\nfriend. \"It is Mrs. Hurtle,\" he said, \"I must introduce you,\" and the\nintroduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did\nso with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle, who was quick enough at\ngathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in\nher acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much\nof Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. \"I did\nnot know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft,\" said Roger\nin a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present\nmoment was severe, and he could not hide his mind.\n\n\n[Illustration: The sands at Lowestoft.]\n\n\n\"I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and\nas she knew no one else here in England, I brought her.\"\n\n\"Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before\nnow,\" she said, \"that a few additional will not make much\ndifference.\"\n\n\"Do you stay long?\" asked Roger in the same voice.\n\n\"I go back probably on Monday,\" said Montague.\n\n\"As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any\none after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company\non me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this\nevening?\"\n\n\"Thank you, madam;--I have dined.\"\n\n\"Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet,\nthough it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dine\nyou know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join\nus.\" So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the\nhotel.\n\n\"Is this wise?\" demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral,\nas soon as the lady was out of hearing.\n\n\"You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it so\nthoroughly as I do.\"\n\n\"Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?\"\n\n\"No; certainly not.\"\n\n\"Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her\nin this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?\"\n\n\"I have told her that I would not. I have told her--.\" Then he\nstopped. He was going on to declare that he had told her that he\nloved another woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that\nmatter in speaking to Roger Carbury.\n\n\"What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?\"\n\n\"I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you would\nnever have the patience to hear me.\"\n\n\"I am not naturally impatient.\"\n\n\"But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it\nmust be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound\nto go to her?\"\n\n\"Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter.\"\n\n\"I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it.\"\n\n\"Then you should have left her.\"\n\n\"Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert\nher in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not\ndesert her.\"\n\n\"I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself\nto be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons\nwhich we will not go into now but which we both thought to be\nadequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would\nbe justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with\nthe lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that\nyour old promise holds good.\"\n\n\"She does not think so. She cannot think so.\"\n\n\"Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be,\nto be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why I\nshould trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that\nI don't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right to\ncomplain.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as\nthough you meant to throw me over.\"\n\n\"I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here\nto this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are\nnot going to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it,\nof course I could have turned the other way. But coming on you by\naccident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak,\nwhat am I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in\nmarrying you.\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is\ngood-looking.\"\n\n\"Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her\ncountry are not as the manners of this country.\"\n\n\"Then if I marry at all,\" said Roger, with all his prejudice\nexpressed strongly in his voice, \"I trust I may not marry a lady of\nher country. She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet\nshe comes down here and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it.\nI believe you, but I don't believe her. She is here with you in\norder that she may marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are\nfoolish and weak. Believing as I do that marriage with her would\nbe destruction, I should tell her my mind,--and leave her.\" Paul\nat the moment thought of the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain\ndifficulties in leaving. \"That's what I should do. You must go in\nnow, I suppose, and eat your dinner.\"\n\n\"I may come to the hall as I go back home?\"\n\n\"Certainly you may come if you please,\" said Roger. Then he bethought\nhimself that his welcome had not been cordial. \"I mean that I shall\nbe delighted to see you,\" he added, marching away along the strand.\nPaul did go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. In the meantime\nRoger Carbury marched far away along the strand. In all that he had\nsaid to Montague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to\nhim to be the truth. He had not been influenced for a moment by any\nreference to his own affairs. And yet he feared, he almost knew, that\nthis man,--who had promised to marry a strange American woman and who\nwas at this very moment living in close intercourse with the woman\nafter he had told her that he would not keep his promise,--was the\nchief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved. As he\nhad listened to John Crumb while John spoke of Ruby Ruggles, he\nhad told himself that he and John Crumb were alike. With an honest,\ntrue, heart-felt desire they both panted for the companionship of a\nfellow-creature whom each had chosen. And each was to be thwarted\nby the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks!\nCrumb, by dogged perseverance and indifference to many things, would\nprobably be successful at last. But what chance was there of success\nfor him? Ruby, as soon as want or hardship told upon her, would\nreturn to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide her with\nplenty and comparative ease. But Hetta Carbury, if once her heart\nhad passed from her own dominion into the possession of another,\nwould never change her love. It was possible, no doubt,--nay, how\nprobable,--that her heart was still vacillating. Roger thought that\nhe knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared her love. If she\nwere now to know,--if she could now learn,--of what nature was the\nlove of this other man; if she could be instructed that he was living\nalone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,--if\nshe could be made to understand this whole story of Mrs. Hurtle,\nwould not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she\ncould trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would\ncertainly be shipwrecked!\n\n\"Never,\" said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach\nwith his stick. \"Never.\" Then he got his horse and rode back to\nCarbury Manor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\nMRS. HURTLE AT LOWESTOFT.\n\n\nWhen Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already\nthere, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready to\ntake the cover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and made\nherself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that\neverything was not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked and\nlaughed, there was something forced in her manner. He almost knew\nthat she was only waiting till the man should have left the room\nto speak in a different strain. And so it was. As soon as the last\nlingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shut\nbehind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt\nhad been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to the\nhotel. \"Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?\"\n\n\"Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true\nthat he had dined.\"\n\n\"I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of\ndeclining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimate\nterms with you?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. In\npoint of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?\" To this question\nMontague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate\nanswer. \"I can well understand that it should be so. An intimate\nfriend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence.\nBut unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his\nfriend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told me\nthat Mr. Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman.\"\n\n\"So he is.\"\n\n\"Then why didn't he behave as such?\" and Mrs. Hurtle again smiled.\n\"Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with\nme, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority over\nyou?\"\n\n\"Of course he has not. What authority could he have?\"\n\n\"Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-going\ncountry young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are\npast thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that\nhe intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did\nafter I had gone.\"\n\nThis was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was\nhe sure that it would be well that he should deny it. The time must\ncome, and why not now as well as at any future moment? He had to make\nher understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly\nindeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could\nhardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior right\nto his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to\ncause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he\nplucked up courage for the battle. \"It was nearly that,\" he said.\n\nThere are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readers\nwill be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that Paul\nMontague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance\nto face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling at first\nunder the battery of her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement,\nunwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his\nengagement, will be pardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, will\nfeel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, natural\nthat he should have expressed his admiration in the form which\nunmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expression\nis to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to\nescape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of the\nstep which he had proposed to take. No woman, I think, will be hard\nupon him because of his breach of faith to Mrs. Hurtle. But they\nwill be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice,--as, I think,\nunjustly. In social life we hardly stop to consider how much of that\ndaring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather\nthan from high purpose, or true courage. The man who succumbs to\nhis wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who\nsuccumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a\ncontinual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which\ncauses the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as by\nany actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have\nproduced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin,\nan incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of others\nwith equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but which\nis compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness of\npurpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as to\nassert itself. With this man it was not really that. He feared the\nwoman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent;\nbut he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter\ndesertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring\nhimself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go.\nBut that was what he had to do. And for that his answer to her last\nquestion prepared the way. \"It was nearly that,\" he said.\n\n\"Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing\nyourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?\"\n\n\"He knew of the letter which I wrote to you.\"\n\n\"You have canvassed me between you?\"\n\n\"Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me be\nsilent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the\nworld?\"\n\n\"No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best\nfriend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should not\nhave supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travelling\nwith you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own\nactions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold\nthemselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream\nthat such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the\nworld to make his fortune.\"\n\nPaul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was being\ncommenced. \"Of course you can say bitter things,\" he replied.\n\n\"Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter\nthings to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that\nyou should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I\nhave to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but\none word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be\nsoon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr. Carbury,\nexcept to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak\nbut that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember\nhow urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that\nyour happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though\nI loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which\nhave now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because\nI believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given before\nI made my gift to you.\"\n\n\"I cannot say that word.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old\nglove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be\nfalse, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like\nthat. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall\ndare.\"\n\n\"I wrote to you.\"\n\n\"Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I think\nbut little of my life and have but little for which to live. But\nwhile I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face\ninjustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote\nto me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear\nsuch impudence!\" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the\ntable as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a\nfurther distance. \"Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writing\nbreak the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distance\nbetween us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to\nwrite that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has already\nbeen contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this\ncountry.\"\n\n\"I am sorry to hear you say that.\"\n\n\"Am I not justified in saying it?\"\n\n\"I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I have\nbeen wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it.\"\n\n\"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the\nbeach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with the\npurpose. Had you told him you were to be here?\"\n\n\"His coming was an accident.\"\n\n\"It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to\nme? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all\nthat is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue\nthe matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"What has to be said, I believe I can say myself.\"\n\n\"Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it, that the words stick in\nyour throat?\"\n\n\"There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that\nwhich will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had\nI been fairly careful.\"\n\nThen he paused. \"Don't spare me,\" she said. \"I know what it all is\nas well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which\nthey have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in\nOregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead\nat my feet.\" Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at\nhim. \"Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate\nto tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that\ndying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken\nscreech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap\njust below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus\nalone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must\nafterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not\ntry me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the\nvery hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know\nnothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be\nfrom lies.\"\n\n\"It was not that only,\" he whispered.\n\n\"No; they told you other things,\" she continued, still standing over\nhim. \"They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies,\nand who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of\nmy former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a\nscoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you\ncan hardly know what my life has been.\"\n\n\"They told me that--you fought him.\"\n\n\"Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you to\ndo but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and\ntreachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for\nfighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a\nduel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him,\nand told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went away\nto the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was\nthe duel. And they have told you that he is not dead.\"\n\n\"Yes;--they have told me that.\"\n\n\"Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen him\ndead. How should I?\"\n\n\"There would be a certificate.\"\n\n\"Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from\nGalveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him\naccording to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make\na woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued\nfor a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no\nappearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?\"\n\n\"I heard nothing of the divorce.\"\n\n\"I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before,\nyou did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to\nhear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become\nmore particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself,\nand do believe. Whether the other story was told or not I do not\nknow.\"\n\n\"It was not told.\"\n\n\"Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And they\nhave made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my\nproperty?\"\n\n\"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have\nsaid unasked. I have asked no question about your property.\"\n\n\"You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir,\nwhat else is there? I think I have been open with you. Is it because\nI protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am\nI to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a\nreprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or\nbecause by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not\nto be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned.\"\n\nShe had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but\nin doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to\nshooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman\nshould shoot a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her\nhusband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. He presumed\nthat she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtle\nadmittance into the nuptial chamber. As to the question of Hurtle's\ndeath,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. But then,--as\nshe had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand\nbe considered as good as a death? He could not say that she had\nnot washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by\nherself, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much of\ndrunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much\nof a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he\nassumed to be her master. \"I do not condemn you,\" he replied.\n\n\"At any rate, Paul, do not lie,\" she answered. \"If you tell me that\nyou will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--\"\n\n\"Well;--rather. How often before I consented?\"\n\n\"It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have since\nsatisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of\nus.\"\n\n\"You have?\"\n\n\"I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me\nas you please. I can hardly defend myself.\"\n\n\"Hardly, I think.\"\n\n\"But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the\nbest in declaring that I will not become--your husband.\"\n\n\"You will not?\" She was still standing, and stretched out her right\nhand as though again to grasp something.\n\nHe also now rose from his chair. \"If I speak with abruptness it is\nonly to avoid a show of indecision. I will not.\"\n\n\"Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after\nman false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear\nit! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is\nit that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak\nfor herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary?\nPerhaps you think that I am--old.\" He was looking at her intently as\nshe spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to\nher face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play\nof drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemed\nto be deep in her head. \"Speak, man,--is it that you want a younger\nwife?\"\n\n\"You know it is not.\"\n\n\"Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what\nyou tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your\ncharacter. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to\nyou, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me\nand him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing\nwhat you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that\nis impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh,\nfool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of\nthe world! My last word to you is, that you are--a liar. Now for the\npresent you can go. Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand\nI should have shot another man.\"\n\nPaul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but\nthink that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed\nat any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--though\nluckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the\npresent occasion. \"I will say good-bye to you,\" he said, when he had\nfound his hat.\n\n\"Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of\nme. Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy.\nTell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman.\nYou would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself.\" He was now\nstanding in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an\nimperative command. \"I shall not stay here now,\" she said--\"I shall\nreturn on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must\nresolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking\na means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to\ncome to me on Monday.\"\n\nHe closed the door as he answered her. \"I do not see that it will\nserve any purpose.\"\n\n\"It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a\ncoward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you;\nand you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myself\nand to tell my story.\" He ended by saying that if she desired it he\nwould wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. On\nhis return to town he would write to her.\n\nWhen he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then she\nclosed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door\nand with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and\nfalling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table.\nThen she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon\nthe floor.\n\nWas this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never have\none draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end to\nthe storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that\nshe had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the\ntruth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life? She\nhad endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed\nagainst, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which\nhad befallen her. But in regard to money, she had been honest and she\nhad been loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this\nyoung Englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring,\nwith all her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey\nwould this be which she must now make back to her own country, all\nalone!\n\nBut the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of\ndisappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had\npoured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm\nof abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all\nsomething counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was no\ncounterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and\ntaken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have\nblessed him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of\nviolence and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs\nthe old habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the\nwrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be\nbearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour\nforth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she\nthought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl.\nWhen she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in\nbeing near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last\nbe open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol\nshot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had\noften told herself before, that it would have been better for her to\nhave turned the muzzle against her own bosom.\n\nAfter receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told\nherself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter first\nreached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her,\ndeclared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural.\nIn marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old\nhaunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough of\nherself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past\nlife should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in\nEngland. With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in\nspeaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so often\nthe case in the minds of American men and women, an almost envious\nadmiration of English excellence. To have been allowed to forget the\npast and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven\nto her. But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in\nthe eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a\nproverb for violence out in the far West,--how could she dare to hope\nthat her lot should be so changed for her?\n\nShe had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before\nshe had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that\nhesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness.\nBut it had been so. Circumstances had made her what she was.\nCircumstances had been cruel to her. But she could not now alter\nthem. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost\nherself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed.\nShe had, however, almost known that it could not be so. But this man\nhad relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Though\nshe could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life\nbe opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that\njourney to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary\nkind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she have\naccompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been\nfit.\n\nShe was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That at\nany rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware that\ntime was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable of\ncausing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities of\na good comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this of\nherself. If he and she could be together in some country in which\nthose stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could\nshe not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give up\neverything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous\ncountry for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with\nhim in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been\nshe must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It was\nconsonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present\nplans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.\n\nSitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the\nplan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was\nthe writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her\nfondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write the\nletter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the\nstrength to send it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling\nshe wrote the following words:--\n\n\n   DEAR PAUL,--\n\n   You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have\n   been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you when\n   we were together; but you have learned and have learned\n   truly that you should not give up your life for such\n   attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me.\n   You will acknowledge that I have suffered.\n\n   Always know that there is one woman who will love you\n   better than any one else. I think too that you will love\n   me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless\n   you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest\n   word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself\n   heartless. But do not come to me.\n\n   For ever,\n\n   W. H.\n\n\nThis she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it\ntwice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she\nought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not\nbring herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went\nto bed but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had\nleft her.\n\nPaul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the\nsea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance\nto take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast\nhe presented himself to the squire. \"I have come earlier than you\nexpected,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, indeed;--much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoft?\"\n\nThen he told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction,\nrecalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return.\n\"Let her follow you, and bear it,\" he said. \"Of course you must\nsuffer the effects of your own imprudence.\" On that evening Paul\nMontague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he\nwould thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\nRUBY A PRISONER.\n\n\nRuby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at\nthe Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him\nagain. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was\nstronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her\nlover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly\nhad not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a\nLondon lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard\nlife, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming\ndelight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three\ndays distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash\nand dress all the children without complaint. Mrs. Pipkin was forced\nto own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had\nparted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never\nto meet again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she\nhad been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to\nbe told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he\nwould speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance.\nAnd so she wrote him a letter.\n\nRuby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly\nbear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored\nthe expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want\nto hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the\nMusic Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a\nvery short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the\nTuesday. As at this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday\non his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last\nnight to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.\n\nMrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is\ncertainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send\nand receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's\nvisit Mrs. Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her\nniece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night.\nShe took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly\nas far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and\nsaucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs. Pipkin's\nmind was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's behests. She had already\nhinted something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her\npurpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,--should she\nfind her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the\nevening,--that she should be kept out the whole night, having a\npurpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath\nshould she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on\nthe Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright\nidea as to a better precaution struck Mrs. Pipkin's mind. Ruby had\nbeen careless,--had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket\nwhen she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about\nit. It was nine o'clock when Ruby went up-stairs,--and then Mrs.\nPipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle\nhad come home on the previous day. \"You won't be wanting to go out\nto-night;--will you, Mrs. Hurtle?\" said Mrs. Pipkin, knocking at her\nlodger's door. Mrs. Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home\nall the evening. \"If you should hear words between me and my niece,\ndon't you mind, ma'am.\"\n\n\"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?\"\n\n\"She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right;\nis it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays\nof doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to\ncome next.\" Mrs. Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she\nthus took her lodger into her confidence.\n\nRuby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made\nher usual little speech. \"I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a\nlittle time to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite\nquiet.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Ruby, you won't,\" said Mrs. Pipkin.\n\n\"Won't what, aunt?\"\n\n\"Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'll\nstay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't\ncome back here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that\nI should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the\ngreatest scamp in all England.\"\n\n\"They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin.\"\n\n\"Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house;\nso that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, you\nneedn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take\noff again.\"\n\nRuby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition,--what\nshe would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that\nher aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It\nseemed to her that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by\nhard work. Nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as\nher threat. \"I've a right to go if I like,\" she said.\n\n\"That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, any\nway.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl\ndown-stairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a\nright to come back;--and go I shall.\"\n\n\"You'll be no better than you should be, if you do.\"\n\n\"Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all\nday till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not\nonce in a week?\"\n\n\"Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw\nyourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me.\"\n\n\"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into\nno gutter. I know what I'm about.\"\n\n\"There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about.\"\n\n\"I shall just go then.\" And Ruby walked off towards the door.\n\n\"You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and\nthe area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things\noff.\"\n\nPoor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. Mrs.\nPipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she\npossessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door,\nor attempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of\nRuby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion\nover her as over a servant. And though she was now determined in\nher conduct,--being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys\nwhich she held in her pocket,--still she feared that she might so\nfar collapse as to fall away into tears, should Ruby be violent.\nBut Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and the\nappointment would be broken by her! \"Aunt Pipkin,\" she said, \"let me\ngo just this once.\"\n\n\"No, Ruby;--it ain't proper.\"\n\n\"You don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruin\nme,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you\ndon't like.\"\n\nMrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield.\nBut Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly! \"It ain't the thing,\nRuby; and I won't do it.\"\n\n\"And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I\ndon't believe as you've any right to lock me up.\"\n\n\"I've a right to lock my own doors.\"\n\n\"Then I shall go away to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if you\nchoose to go out.\"\n\n\"Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?\" But Mrs.\nPipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to\nher garret.\n\nMrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. \"She's gone to bed,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?\"\n\n\"Not as I expected, Mrs. Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a\nbit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of\nouting as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when\nmother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no\nfather. And she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a\ngreat gentleman will marry her.\"\n\n\"She is pretty!\"\n\n\"But what's beauty, Mrs. Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the\nscriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry\nher? She says she'll leave to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And where will she go?\"\n\n\"Just nowhere. After this gentleman,--and you know what that means!\nYou're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin.\"\n\n\"And this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are\nmanaged. No gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls\nas knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them.\nThat's my way of looking at it.\"\n\n\"Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?\"\n\n\"Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the\ngentlemen. A gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks\nup free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then,\nmaybe, I'm old-fashioned,\" added Mrs. Pipkin, thinking of the new\ndispensation.\n\n\"I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did\nformerly.\"\n\n\"A deal more, Mrs. Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of\nspooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that\nbefore their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do\nit, I suppose,--only not like that.\"\n\n\"You did it on the sly.\"\n\n\"I think we got married quicker than they do, any way. When the\ngentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But\nif you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd\nlisten to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't\nwant her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows\nwhere she's to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's\njust walking the streets.\"\n\nMrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when making\nthe promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task.\nShe knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in\nit, but Paul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little\ndiscretion as Ruby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover.\nWho was she that she should take upon herself to give advice to any\nfemale?\n\nShe had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in her\npocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and\nat others she told herself that she would never surrender this last\nhope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible\nto shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on\nthe Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her\nmildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and\nshe had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her\nback again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\nSIR FELIX MAKES HIMSELF READY.\n\n\nSir Felix, when he promised to meet Ruby at the Music Hall on the\nTuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte for New\nYork on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool on the\nWednesday. There was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy\nhimself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor little\nRuby. The details of his journey were settled between him and Marie,\nwith no inconsiderable assistance from Didon, in the garden of\nGrosvenor Square, on the previous Sunday,--where the lovers had\nagain met during the hours of morning service. Sir Felix had been\nastonished at the completion of the preparations which had been made.\n\"Mind you go by the 5 P.M. train,\" Marie said. \"That will take you\ninto Liverpool at 10.15. There's an hotel at the railway-station.\nDidon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and Mademoiselle\nRacine. We are to have one cabin between us. You must get yours\nto-morrow. She has found out that there is plenty of room.\"\n\n\"I'll be all right.\"\n\n\"Pray don't miss the train that afternoon. Somebody would be sure\nto suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. We\nleave at 7 A.M. I shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be\nin time. Robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the\ncab with my heavy box. What do you think is in it?\"\n\n\"Clothes,\" suggested Felix.\n\n\"Yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. Think of that! What a\njob to get them and nobody to know anything about it except Didon and\nMadame Craik at the shop in Mount Street! They haven't come yet, but\nI shall be there whether they come or not. And I shall have all my\njewels. I'm not going to leave them behind. They'll go off in our\ncab. We can get the things out behind the house into the mews. Then\nDidon and I follow in another cab. Nobody ever is up before near\nnine, and I don't think we shall be interrupted.\"\n\n\"If the servants were to hear.\"\n\n\"I don't think they'd tell. But if I was to be brought back again,\nI should only tell papa that it was no good. He can't prevent me\nmarrying.\"\n\n\"Won't your mother find out?\"\n\n\"She never looks after anything. I don't think she'd tell if she\nknew. Papa leads her such a life! Felix! I hope you won't be like\nthat.\"--And she looked up into his face, and thought that it would be\nimpossible that he should be.\n\n\"I'm all right,\" said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the time.\nThis great effort of his life was drawing very near. There had been\na pleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the great\nheiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed,--and\nexecuted after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wished\nthat he had not undertaken it. It must have been much nicer when men\nran away with their heiresses only as far as Gretna Green. And even\nGoldsheiner with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison with\nthis which he was expected to perform. And then if they should be\nwrong about the girl's fortune! He almost repented. He did repent,\nbut he had not the courage to recede. \"How about money though?\" he\nsaid hoarsely.\n\n\"You have got some?\"\n\n\"I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and\nnot a shilling more. I don't see why he should keep my money, and not\nlet me have it back.\"\n\n\"Look here,\" said Marie, and she put her hand into her pocket.\n\"I told you I thought I could get some. There is a cheque for two\nhundred and fifty pounds. I had money of my own enough for the\ntickets.\"\n\n\"And whose is this?\" said Felix, taking the bit of paper with much\ntrepidation.\n\n\"It is papa's cheque. Mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the\nhouse and pay for things. But she gets so muddled about it that she\ndoesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't.\" Felix looked at the\ncheque and saw that it was payable to House or Bearer, and that it\nwas signed by Augustus Melmotte. \"If you take it to the bank you'll\nget the money,\" said Marie. \"Or shall I send Didon, and give you the\nmoney on board the ship?\"\n\nFelix thought over the matter very anxiously. If he did go on the\njourney he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. He\nliked the feeling of having money in his pocket. Perhaps if Didon\nwere entrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. But\nthen might it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself\nhe might be arrested for stealing Melmotte's money? \"I think Didon\nhad better get the money,\" he said, \"and bring it to me to-morrow,\nat four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club.\" If the money did\nnot come he would not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the\nexpense of his ticket for New York. \"You see,\" he said, \"I'm so much\nin the City that they might know me at the bank.\" To this arrangement\nMarie assented and took back the cheque. \"And then I'll come on board\non Thursday morning,\" he said, \"without looking for you.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. And don't know us even till\nwe are out at sea. Won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on\nthe deck and not speaking to one another! And, Felix;--what do you\nthink? Didon has found out that there is to be an American clergyman\non board. I wonder whether he'd marry us.\"\n\n\"Of course he will.\"\n\n\"Won't that be jolly? I wish it was all done. Then, directly it's\ndone, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph and write to papa,\nand we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? Of course he'll\nmake the best of it.\"\n\n\"But he's so savage; isn't he?\"\n\n\"When there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. But I don't\nthink he minds afterwards. He's always for making the best of\neverything;--misfortunes and all. Things go wrong so often that if he\nwas to go on thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody.\nIt'll be all right in a month's time. I wonder how Lord Nidderdale\nwill look when he hears that we've gone off. I should so like to see\nhim. He never can say that I've behaved bad to him. We were engaged,\nbut it was he broke it. Do you know, Felix, that though we were\nengaged to be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed\nme!\" Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so. As\nto what the other man had done, he cared nothing at all.\n\nThen they parted with the understanding that they were not to see\neach other again till they met on board the boat. All arrangements\nwere made. But Felix was determined that he would not stir in the\nmatter unless Didon brought him the full sum of £250; and he almost\nthought, and indeed hoped, that she would not. Either she would be\nsuspected at the bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the\nmoney on her own account when she got it;--or the cheque would have\nbeen missed and the payment stopped. Some accident would occur, and\nthen he would be able to recede from his undertaking. He would do\nnothing till after Monday afternoon.\n\nShould he tell his mother that he was going? His mother had clearly\nrecommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approve\nof the measure. His mother would understand how great would be the\nexpense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stock\nof money. He determined that he would tell his mother;--that is, if\nDidon should bring him full change for the cheque.\n\nHe walked into the Beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the Monday,\nand there he found Didon standing in the hall. His heart sank within\nhim as he saw her. Now must he certainly go to New York. She made him\na little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft and\nfat with rich enclosures. He bade her wait a moment, and going into a\nlittle waiting-room counted the notes. The money was all there;--the\nfull sum of £250. He must certainly go to New York. \"C'est tout en\nrègle?\" said Didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. Sir Felix\nnodded his head, and Didon took her departure.\n\nYes; he must go now. He had Melmotte's money in his pocket, and was\ntherefore bound to run away with Melmotte's daughter. It was a great\ntrouble to him as he reflected that Melmotte had more of his money\nthan he had of Melmotte's. And now how should he dispose of his time\nbefore he went? Gambling was too dangerous. Even he felt that. Where\nwould he be were he to lose his ready money? He would dine that night\nat the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. On the Tuesday\nhe would take his place for New York in the City, and would spend the\nevening with Ruby at the Music Hall. On the Wednesday, he would start\nfor Liverpool,--according to his instructions. He felt annoyed that\nhe had been so fully instructed. But should the affair turn out well\nnobody would know that. All the fellows would give him credit for the\naudacity with which he had carried off the heiress to America.\n\nAt ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck\nStreet--\"What; Felix?\" exclaimed Lady Carbury.\n\n\"You're surprised; are you not?\" Then he threw himself into a chair.\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"would you mind coming into the other room?\" Lady\nCarbury of course went with him. \"I've got something to tell you,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Good news?\" she asked, clasping her hands together. From his manner\nshe thought that it was good news. Money had in some way come into\nhis hands,--or at any rate a prospect of money.\n\n\"That's as may be,\" he said, and then he paused.\n\n\"Don't keep me in suspense, Felix.\"\n\n\"The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie off.\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix.\"\n\n\"You said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore\nI'm going to do it. The worst of it is that one wants such a lot of\nmoney for this kind of thing.\"\n\n\"But when?\"\n\n\"Immediately. I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged everything.\nI've had it in my mind for the last fortnight.\"\n\n\"And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed.\"\n\n\"It was your own idea, you know. We're going to;--where do you\nthink?\"\n\n\"How can I think?--Boulogne.\"\n\n\"You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn't have\ndone at all for us. We're going to--New York.\"\n\n\"To New York! But when will you be married?\"\n\n\"There will be a clergyman on board. It's all fixed. I wouldn't go\nwithout telling you.\"\n\n\"Oh; I wish you hadn't told me.\"\n\n\"Come now;--that's kind. You don't mean to say it wasn't you that put\nme up to it. I've got to get my things ready.\"\n\n\"Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will\nhave your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?\"\n\n\"Wednesday afternoon.\"\n\n\"For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how\nwill it be if he does not forgive her?\" He attempted to laugh. \"When\nI spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he\nwould never give her a shilling.\"\n\n\"They always say that.\"\n\n\"You are going to risk it?\"\n\n\"I am going to take your advice.\" This was dreadful to the poor\nmother. \"There is money settled on her.\"\n\n\"Settled on whom?\"\n\n\"On Marie;--money which he can't get back again.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"She doesn't know;--but a great deal; enough for them all to live\nupon if things went amiss with them.\"\n\n\"But that's only a form, Felix. That money can't be her own, to give\nto her husband.\"\n\n\"Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That's the\npull we've got over him. Marie knows what she's about. She's a great\ndeal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for\nme about money, mother?\"\n\n\"I have none, Felix.\"\n\n\"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do\nit.\"\n\n\"That's not true, Felix. I didn't want you to do it. Oh, I am so\nsorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There\nisn't £20 at the bank altogether.\"\n\n\"They would let you overdraw for £50 or £60.\"\n\n\"I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had\never so much money only lately. I will get some things for you,\nand pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your\nmarriage;--but I have not money to give you.\"\n\n\"That's a blue look out,\" said he, turning himself in his\nchair,--\"just when £60 or £70 might make a fellow for life! You could\nborrow it from your friend Broune.\"\n\n\"I will do no such thing, Felix. £50 or £60 would make very little\ndifference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have\nsome money?\"\n\n\"Some;--yes, some. But I'm so short that any little thing would help\nme.\" Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque\nfor £30, although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not\nso much at her banker's.\n\nAfter this he went back to his club, although he himself understood\nthe danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at\nhome at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the\ncard-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where\nDolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together,\nwith pipes in their mouths. \"Here's Carbury,\" said Dolly, waking\nsuddenly into life. \"Now we can have a game at three-handed loo.\"\n\n\"Thank ye; not for me,\" said Sir Felix. \"I hate three-handed loo.\"\n\n\"Dummy,\" suggested Dolly.\n\n\"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows\nsticking down together.\" Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe,\nconscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. \"By-the-bye,\nGrendall,--look here.\" And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone\nwhispered into his enemy's ear a petition that some of the I. O. U.'s\nmight be converted into cash.\n\n\"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week,\" said Miles.\n\n\"It's always waiting till next week with you,\" said Sir Felix,\ngetting up and standing with his back to the fire-place. There were\nother men in the room, and this was said so that every one should\nhear it. \"I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five\nshillings in the pound?\" And he held up the scraps of paper in his\nhand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck\nStreet, and had taken a glass of brandy on re-entering the club.\n\n\"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here,\" said Dolly.\n\"If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Miles. \"I won't say a word about the matter down\nhere. It isn't the proper thing.\"\n\n\"Come up into the card-room, then,\" said Sir Felix, getting up from\nhis chair. \"It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what\nroom you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and\nhear what you say.\" But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement.\nHe was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was\ngoing to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix\nCarbury had anything to say, he could say it.\n\n\"How I do hate a row!\" said Dolly. \"One has to have rows with one's\nown people, but there ought not to be rows at a club.\"\n\n\"He likes a row,--Carbury does,\" said Miles.\n\n\"I should like my money, if I could get it,\" said Sir Felix, walking\nout of the room.\n\nOn the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's\ncheque. This was done after a little hesitation. The money was given\nto him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind\nLady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. \"Dear, dear;\" said\nSir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, \"I'm sure she was unaware of\nit.\" Then he paid for his passage from Liverpool to New York under\nthe name of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was\nbecoming very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club,\nalone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained\nfrom ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby\nRuggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his\nmind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York.\nOf course he would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever\ncomplain on that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted\nhis last night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had\nbroken her appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever\nmight happen to her she could not blame him.\n\nHaving waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall\nwithout ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his\nclub. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well\ninclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up\nin the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception\nof Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and\none or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in\nthe idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of\nMiles Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none\nof the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the\nBeargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a\nhalf-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but\nthe payments punctual. The I. O. U.'s had been nearly all converted\ninto money,--with the assistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those\nof Miles Grendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to\nGrendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause\nthat he must in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated\nto him the determination of the committee. \"Bygones are bygones, old\nfellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this.\" Miles\nhad declared that he would \"stump up.\" But on this occasion Miles was\nabsent.\n\nAt three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred\npounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a\nfurther sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he\nshould at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.\n\nBut Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of\nrecovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how\nFisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to\ncatch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New\nYork without delay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\nTHE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.\n\n\nMarie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also\nthe faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of\npleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door\nlocked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having\nmore than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed\nto be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that American\nclergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and\nwhether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon\nthought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and\nthat the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistress\nvery often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was\ntrue to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go without\nfood in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by\nthe use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at the\nrailway-station.\n\nAt six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his\nten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller\nluggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and\nnothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them\ntheir tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They\nhad quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by\nMarie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very\nbad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement\nwas so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their\nseats without any impediment,--and then they were off.\n\nDuring a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie\ngabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the\nthings she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale;--especially\nwhen, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no\ntoken of love;--\"pas un baiser!\" Didon suggested that such was the\nway with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale,\nbut had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from\ndevoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was\nugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. \"Bah!\"\nexclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations\nshould prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord\nNidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir\nFelix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would\nnever have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but\nher mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had\nthought that New York, with £50 and other perquisites in hand, might\noffer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could\nhardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress.\nMarie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was running\naway,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would\nbe with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing for\nmarquises.\n\nAs they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still\nbe very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their\ndestination on the platform,--so that every one about the station\nshould know that they were going on board the packet for New York.\nThey had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and\nother things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they\nwere in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply \"Madame Racine,\nPassenger to Liverpool;\"--so also was directed a second box, nearly\nas big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety\nwould not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was\nsure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe\non board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street,\nstriving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and\nloss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath\nthe bedclothes.\n\nWhen the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat\nfor a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any\nhurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter\noffered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages,\nkeeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the\ncarriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot\non the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat,\n\"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte.\" Marie was struck dumb, but said\nnothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young\nlady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine,\nher niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They\nknew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them\nto pass on to their cab?\n\n\n[Illustration: \"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte.\"]\n\n\nBut the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to\ntheir cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not\nseem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the\ndistance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present\nconnect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very\nmuch at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at\nonce gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.\n\n\"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte,\"\nsaid the gentleman, \"and that this other--person is your servant,\nElise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte.\" Marie declared that\nshe spoke French. \"And English too,\" said the gentleman. \"I think you\nhad better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany\nyou.\"\n\n\"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!\" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up\nher courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position\nand of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to\nLiverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their\nluggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing\nagainst the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was\nit to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?\n\nThe gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit\nhimself to reply in the same language. \"You had better trust yourself\nto me; you had indeed,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"But why?\" demanded Marie.\n\nThen the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. \"A cheque has been\nchanged which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father\nwill pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we\nmay bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the\ncheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go\non board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be\nsubjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided.\"\n\nThere was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well\ndoubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more\nto the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the\ngentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not\nto have been punished with special severity in that they had injured\nhumanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced.\nWho is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their\nold interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie,\nwhen she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr.\nScudamore.\n\nWhen the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further\nopposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she\nsat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her\nown behalf,--and her clamour was successful. \"Who was going to stop\nher? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did\nanybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody\ndid, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She\nwould go where she pleased.\" So saying she began to tug the rope of\nher box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the\nstation. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another\ndocument which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it\nbe wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her\nwithin the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that\nDidon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only\nthe more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she\npleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she\naddressed herself in what little English she could command to\nhalf-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene.\nThey were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay.\nShe started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. \"But the\nbox in her hand is mine,\" said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in\nher misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself\nin the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on\nto the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of\nour story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New\nYork, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us\nto enquire.\n\nPoor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved\nhimself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on\nboard the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense,\nlooking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been\ncarried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape.\nAnd, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still\nhope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched\na marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She\nwould have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she\nsee her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings\nwhen he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!\nBut in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true\nto him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before,\nand she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mind\nfrom time to time, whether one course might not be better even than\nconstancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage\nand to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her\npresent disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her\nfather? But how then would it be with poor Felix? \"After all I don't\nknow that he cares for me,\" she said to herself, thinking over it\nall.\n\nThe gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though\nshe were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a\nlittle advice. \"Put a good face on it,\" he said, \"and don't be cast\ndown.\"\n\n\"Oh, I won't,\" she answered. \"I don't mean.\"\n\n\"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again.\"\n\n\"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow\nif I had the chance.\" The gentleman looked at her, not having\nexpected so much determination. \"I would. Why is a girl to be made\nto marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean\nsaying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa\nnever says anything about it.\"\n\n\"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte.\"\n\n\"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because\npapa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright\nmean to send and have me taken up before all the people.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that.\"\n\n\"Of course I wouldn't,\" said Marie.\n\nThe gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the\njourney, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte\ncarriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box\nwas to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor\nSquare might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square,\nof course, very soon knew all about it. \"And are you to come?\" Marie\nasked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had\nbeen requested to see Miss Melmotte home. \"All the people will wonder\nwho you are,\" said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that\nMiss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much\nsuffering.\n\nWhen she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's\nroom,--and there she found her father, alone. \"This is your game, is\nit?\" said he, looking down at her.\n\n\"Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it.\"\n\n\"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?\" To this she\nvouchsafed no reply. \"As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was\ngoing with you?\"\n\n\"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa.\"\n\n\"Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little\nidiot.\"\n\n\"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so.\"\n\n\"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?\" Then she opened her\neyes and looked at him. \"An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's\nhouse in Welbeck Street.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it, papa.\"\n\n\"You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to New\nYork, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed\nbehind, I think I'd have let you go.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he didn't stay behind.\"\n\n\"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London\nat this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?\"\n\n\"She's gone on board the ship.\"\n\n\"And where is the money you took from your mother?\" Marie was silent.\n\"Who got the cheque changed?\"\n\n\"Didon did.\"\n\n\"And has she got the money?\"\n\n\"No, papa.\"\n\n\"Have you got it?\"\n\n\"No, papa.\"\n\n\"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa.\"\n\n\"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it.\nI only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back\nagain.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go\nto Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to\nmarry him again if I don't prosecute him?\" Marie considered. \"Unless\nyou do that I shall go to a magistrate at once.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. I\ngave it to him.\"\n\n\"Will you promise me?\"\n\n\"No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only\nbreak it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good\nof all the money if people don't have what they like?\"\n\n\"All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here,\" and\nhe took her by the arm. \"I've been very good to you. You've had\nyour share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses,\nbracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else.\" He\nheld her very hard and shook her as he spoke.\n\n\"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't\ncare a straw about bracelets and brooches.\"\n\n\"What do you care for?\"\n\n\"Only for somebody to love me,\" said Marie, looking down.\n\n\"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion.\nYou've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something\nfor me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If you\nweren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than\nyou do.\"\n\n\"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy.\"\n\n\"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale\nyou'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you.\"\n\n\"Then I won't,\" said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she\ncried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let\nthe girl for one minute out of her presence.\n\nThe condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady\nwith whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden\ntill four in the morning and had then left the club, on the\nbreaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless.\nDuring the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the\nclub, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom,\nindeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they\nbeen said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that\nGrendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing\nloo,--as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he\nended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club.\nThey had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew\nnothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that\nperhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock\nthe party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the\nstreets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his\npocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there\nhe left it.\n\nThere could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix\nwandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was\nnearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his\naffairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of\naffliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction\nby producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is\nconscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice\nthick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor\noblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and\nlosing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule\nto every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman,\ngot no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better do\nwith himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of\nhis ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he\nthought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last,\nas he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call\nto mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he had\nwandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where\nhe was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled\nhalf down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes,\nand when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with\nhim as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where he\nlived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of\ngetting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.\n\nBetween six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street.\nHe had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he was\nsupposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At\nlast it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than\nonce, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not\nprobably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the\nmorning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a\nsorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such\na condition. \"Oh, Felix!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"It'sh all up,\" he said, stumbling in.\n\n\"What has happened, Felix?\"\n\n\"Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush.\" Drunk\nas he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the \"old shap\" was fast\nasleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and\nMarie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews.\n\"Bettersh go to bed.\" And so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, the\nwretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his\nboots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own\nroom, a miserable woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\nWHICH SHALL IT BE?\n\n\nPaul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the\nMonday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs. Hurtle. As\nhe sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished\nthat he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at\nany rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then\nhave abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of\ncourse he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things\nwere, of what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her?\nThe kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was\nthat of Roger Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife\nwhom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like\nRoger Carbury! Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as\nhe went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever\nlived in the world?\n\nBut the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had\nrepudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was\nnecessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard\nto Mrs. Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that\nhe would see that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to\nLowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would\nthere put an end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go\nagain to Islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his\npromise, she would come to him. In this way there would never be an\nend to it.\n\nHe would certainly go again, as he had promised,--if she should still\nrequire it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain\nunvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent\nby post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as\nhe now told it.\n\n\n   Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.\n\n   MY DEAR MRS. HURTLE,--\n\n   I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and\n   so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such\n   a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to\n   be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own\n   conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our\n   journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your\n   genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what\n   I found them to be then. But circumstances have made our\n   lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain\n   that, were we married, we should not make each other\n   happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to\n   own that fault, and to take all the blame,--and the evil\n   consequences, let them be what they may,--\n\nto be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon,--\n\n   than to be married with the consciousness that even at\n   the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be\n   a matter of sorrow and repentance. As soon as my mind\n   was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not,--I dare\n   not,--blame you for the step you have since taken. But\n   I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed.\n\n   The first day I saw you here in London you asked me\n   whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer\n   you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord\n   have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I\n   had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first\n   knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her\n   that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping\n   that my love will lead to any results.\n\n   I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition\n   of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to\n   compensate the injury I have done you,--or even to undergo\n   retribution for it,--I would do so. But what compensation\n   can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think\n   that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after\n   this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last\n   time,--because I have promised.\n\n   Your most sincere friend,\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE.\n\n\nMrs. Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. All that Paul\nhad written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a\nscrap of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words,\nfairly transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most\ngenerous and the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be\ngenerous. She had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself.\nBut the sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have\nbeen of another kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she\nwould have delighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had\nshe found him a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some\ndisease, she would have stayed by him and have nursed him and given\nhim comfort. Even had he been disgraced she would have fled with him\nto some far country and have pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice\nwould have been too much for her that would have been accompanied by\na feeling that he appreciated all that she was doing for him, and\nthat she was loved in return. But to sacrifice herself by going away\nand never more being heard of, was too much for her! What woman can\nendure such sacrifice as that? To give up not only her love, but her\nwrath also;--that was too much for her! The idea of being tame was\nterrible to her. Her life had not been very prosperous, but she was\nwhat she was because she had dared to protect herself by her own\nspirit. Now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a\nworm? Should she be weaker even than an English girl? Should she\nallow him to have amused himself with her love, to have had \"a good\ntime,\" and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully\nscorched, so mutilated and punished! Had not her whole life been\nopposed to the theory of such passive endurance? She took out the\nscrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that there\nwas a feminine softness in it that gratified her.\n\nBut no;--she could not send it. She could not even copy the words.\nAnd so she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other\nside,--being in truth torn in two directions. Then she sat herself\ndown to her desk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote\nas follows:--\n\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE,--\n\n   I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this\n   is the worst and most unpardonable,--and the most unmanly.\n   Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a\n   liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor\n   and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle\n   never premeditated such wrong as this. What;--you are to\n   bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can\n   join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,--when\n   they have affected my whole life,--that they are to go for\n   nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On\n   thinking over it, you find that an American wife would\n   not make you so comfortable as some English girl;--and\n   therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother,\n   no man near me;--or you would not dare to do this. You can\n   not but be a coward.\n\n   You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not\n   dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult\n   the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer\n   retribution. I desire you to come to me,--according to\n   your promise,--and you will find me with a horsewhip in my\n   hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body.\n   And then I will see what you will dare to do;--whether you\n   will drag me into a court of law for the assault.\n\n   Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome\n   you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching\n   you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a\n   weapon. I call upon you to come. But should you be afraid\n   and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make\n   London too hot to hold you;--and if I do not find you I\n   will go with my story to every friend you have.\n\n   I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of\n   my mind.\n\n   WINIFRID HURTLE.\n\n\nHaving written this she again read the short note, and again gave\nway to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the\nfollowing morning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the\nthird letter:--\n\n\n   Yes. Come.\n\n   W. H.\n\n\nThis letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He started\nimmediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting.\nHe had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her,\nhis going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at Mrs.\nPipkin's, and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken\nas evidence that he was gradually being conquered. He had declared\nhis purpose plainly enough at Lowestoft,--and plainly enough in his\nlast letter. She had told him down at the hotel, that had she by\nchance have been armed at the moment, she would have shot him. She\ncould arm herself now if she pleased;--but his real fear had not lain\nin that direction. The pang consisted in having to assure her that he\nwas resolved to do her wrong. The worst of that was now over.\n\nThe door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him with\na happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of her\nimprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this\nvery moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, in\nfact, abed in Welbeck Street. \"Yes, sir; she's at home,\" said Ruby,\nwith a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress.\n\"Don't pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?\"\nRuby had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, but\nhad not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogether\nintent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing\nabout Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs. Hurtle's room.\n\n\n[Illustration: The door was opened for him by Ruby.]\n\n\n\"So you have come,\" she said, without rising from her chair.\n\n\"Of course I came, when you desired it.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you\nmuch. Will you sit down there,\" she said, pointing to a seat at some\ndistance from herself. \"So you think it would be best that you and I\nshould never see each other again?\" She was very calm; but it seemed\nto him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it\nmight be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in\nher eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.\n\n\"I did think so certainly. What more can I say?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing; clearly nothing.\" Her voice was very low. \"Why should a\ngentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed\nhis mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's\nlife, or a woman's heart?\" Then she paused. \"And having come, in\nconsequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to\nhold your peace.\"\n\n\"I came because I promised.\"\n\n\"But you did not promise to speak;--did you?\"\n\n\"What would you have me say?\"\n\n\"Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have\nyou say? Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my\nword, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you\nmight get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I\nshould reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might\ngo after it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not\nwant me?\" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half\nlifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.\n\n\"You might indeed,\" he replied, not well knowing what to say.\n\n\"But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you,\nPaul,--still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you\nto me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards\nyou,--none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and\ngentler, and a maid.\" She still looked as though she expected a\nreply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. \"Now that\nyou are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me,\nas to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world\nfor you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin's room here is more my home than\nany other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but\nno reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do\nwith it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should\nbe welcome to it.\" There was no answer possible to all this. The\nquestions were asked because there was no answer possible. \"You might\nat any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are\nyou not,--for my loneliness?\"\n\n\"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions.\"\n\n\"You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future\nlife. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any\nrate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke\nof leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I\nshall be desolate in this.\" Then she paused, and there was absolute\nsilence for a minute. \"You thought my letter very short; did you\nnot?\"\n\n\"It said, I suppose, all you had to say.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter\nI wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to\nchoose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier\nwritten than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had\nmany doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may\nsee them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was\nwriting it, I was determined that that should go.\" Then she handed\nhim the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.\n\n\"I am glad you did not send that,\" he said.\n\n\"I meant it.\"\n\n\"But you have changed your mind?\"\n\n\"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak\nout and tell me.\"\n\n\"I am thinking of you, not of myself.\"\n\n\"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to\nwhich I have been subjected does not justify?\"\n\n\"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that\nunder any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip.\"\n\n\"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse\nthemselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word,\nI don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to\nfight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men.\nBut when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything\nwithout turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed\nalive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin?\nWhat is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked\nyourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a\nwoman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness,\nshall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not\nfight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul,\nhad thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself\nto my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You\nmay as well see them all.\" And so she handed him the scrap which had\nbeen written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.\n\nHe could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his\neyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and\nthrew himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. \"I have not sent it,\nyou know,\" she said. \"I only show it you that you may see how my mind\nhas been at work.\"\n\n\"It hurts me more than the other,\" he replied.\n\n\"Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel\nthat I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment,\nso ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why\nshould life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before\nyou? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?\"\n\n\"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind.\"\n\n\"But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me\nat the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in\nSan Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man\nshould kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon.\" But though she\nspoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his\nhair, and looked into his face. \"I wonder whether that other woman\nloves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better\ngo.\" She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. \"Tell me one\nthing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?\"\n\n\"No; indeed no.\"\n\n\"I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be\ntroubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle.\" She took the sheet of paper\nwhich contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.\n\n\"And am I to keep the other?\" he asked.\n\n\"No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That\nalso shall be destroyed.\" But she took it and restored it to her\npocket-book.\n\n\"Good-bye, my friend,\" he said.\n\n\"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no\nother word spoken.\" And so he went.\n\nAs soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and\nbegged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. \"Mrs. Pipkin,\" she\nsaid, as soon as the woman had entered the room; \"everything is over\nbetween me and Mr. Montague.\" She was standing upright in the middle\nof the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.\n\n\"Lord a' mercy,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.\n\n\"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right\nnow to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him.\"\n\n\"And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too.\"\n\n\"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about\nthat. But it is so. I was engaged to him.\"\n\n\"I'm well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all.\"\n\n\"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all.\" Mrs.\nPipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such\nan interesting story.\n\n\"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not\ntogether. And there's an end of it.\"\n\n\"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be,\nand doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault.\"\n\n\"There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say\nanything more about it.\"\n\n\"And are you going to leave, ma'am?\" said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to\nhave her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she\nget such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle,--a lady who not only did\nnot inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the\nchildren should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had\nnever questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!\n\n\"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin.\" Then Mrs. Pipkin\ngave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it\nalmost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger\nanother lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\nTHE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE.\n\n\nTwo, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury\nin bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother\ncrept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast\nasleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was\none which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head\nto foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort\nanywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to\nsoothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay\nthere he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the\nsolace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to\nthe page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and\nbrandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he\ndid not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.\n\nThe world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements\nfor running away with the great heiress of the day, and had\nabsolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The\ndetails of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would\nstart upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find\nout that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility\nwould be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he\nhad lost all his money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to\nassist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so\ncowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember\nsomething, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a\nconviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he\nsummon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself\nagain anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had\nattempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had\nfailed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his\nclothes! All his things were at the club;--or he thought that they\nwere, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to\ncarry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If\never it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely\nthe time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to\nhim he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The\ndeath of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.\n\nBetween five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he\nappeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There\nmust be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched\nwoman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. As regarded her son\nhimself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What\nmight be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had\nnot heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known\nthat Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night,\nand to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with\nthe view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money.\nShe had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two\ndays preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own\ndaughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had\nnot gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She\nhad searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before\nfelt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns\nwhich were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly.\nHe had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all\nhis money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what\nfurther lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there\nwas instant need for some story. \"Mary says that Felix came back this\nmorning, and that he has not gone at all,\" Hetta exclaimed. The poor\nwoman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her\ndaughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk\nat six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. \"Yes; he has\ncome back,\" said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. \"It\nwas some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken\nthrough. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him.\" After\nthat Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an\nhour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside,\ndetermined that he should speak to her.\n\n\"Felix,\" she said,--\"speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake.\"\nHe groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself,\nfurther under the bedclothes. \"You must get up for your dinner. It is\nnear six o'clock.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said at last.\n\n\"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be\ntold sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust\nyour mother.\"\n\n\"I am so sick, mother.\"\n\n\"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come\nof it all? Where are your things?\"\n\n\"At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to\nme.\" Sam was the page.\n\n\"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this.\nWhat has been done?\"\n\n\"It hasn't come off.\"\n\n\"But how has it not come off?\"\n\n\"I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?\"\n\n\"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had\ndiscovered it.\"\n\n\"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I\ndon't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd\nrather stay here.\"\n\n\"You must have something to eat, Felix.\"\n\n\"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so\nfaint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't\ntalk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy,\nI'll tell you all about it then.\"\n\n\"Where is the money, Felix?\"\n\n\"I paid it for the ticket,\" said he, with both his hands up to his\nhead.\n\nThen his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to\nbe allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was\nto give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and\ninvigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him\nsoda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he\ndid succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.\n\n\"Is he ill, mamma?\" Hetta asked.\n\n\"Yes, my dear.\"\n\n\"Had you not better send for a doctor?\"\n\n\"No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me\neverything.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. \"Don't ask.\nWhat's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There\nis nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined.\"\n\n\"Has he done anything, mamma?\"\n\n\"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He\ntells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much\nbetter it would be to be childless!\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?\" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and\nthrowing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. \"Mamma, say\nthat you do not mean me.\"\n\n\"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try\nto be a comfort to you?\"\n\n\"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who\ncan protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and\na friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and\ngamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will\nnot help me in my trouble.\"\n\n\"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?\"\n\n\"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call\nlove around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and\na good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one\neffort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad.\"\n\n\"I have never said so.\"\n\n\"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what\nyou could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to\nsacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others.\"\n\nHetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again\nwent up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right\nthat she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be\nright that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to\nher family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did\nin truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew,\nall that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother\nhad spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew\nalso that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such\na condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she\ncould have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous\nof making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for\nher mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she\nleft herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's\ntreasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could\ndoom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets\nfor her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give\nherself into the arms of a man she did not love.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Can I marry the man I do not love?\"]\n\n\n\"I don't know what there is to explain,\" said Felix to his mother.\nShe had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had\nbeen interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him\nfrom Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been\npossible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring\nhimself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. \"It\ndidn't come off,\" he said, \"and of course that knocked me off my\nlegs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A\nfellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the\nclub,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more.\nAnd then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the\nticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30\nin getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I\nhaven't another shilling in the world.\" Of course he said nothing\nof Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from\nMelmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could\nnot contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement,\nbut she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach\nher ears sooner or later.\n\nThat evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Broune called in Welbeck\nStreet. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for\na cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his\nnewspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from\naccepting his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached\nto her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of\nreal friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to\nher more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to\nhim with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even\na shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he\nhold her hand. As for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than\nof kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that\nworried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the\nperilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding\nweight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed.\nAnd he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this\nfellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man\nsnuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own\nvirtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew\nhis good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here,\nhow he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the\ncountry millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand\ntruth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery,\nand little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost\nmade up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Of nothing was Mr. Broune more\ncertain than that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to\nthe Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. \"The world of\nLondon generally knows what it is about,\" said Mr. Broune, \"and the\nLondon world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to\nsay that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not\ngoing into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and\ngenius, and Alf will get the worst of it.\" Under such teaching as\nthis, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alf.\n\nSometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also\nMr. Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be\nin her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at\nonce poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she\ntold him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had\nalready heard the story. \"The young lady went down to Liverpool, and\nSir Felix was not there.\"\n\n\"He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all\nday. Did she go?\"\n\n\"So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer\nof the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without\nletting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that\nher lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her.\"\n\n\"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start,\"\nsaid Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to\nNew York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything\nabout money?\"\n\n\"What money?\"\n\n\"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had\ntaken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no\ntime in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would\ndo it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it\nshould be sent back at once. It will be for his credit.\" This Mr.\nBroune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.\n\nIt was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor,\nas she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any\nmoney. What did Mr. Broune mean by a large sum? \"That would be\ndreadful,\" she said.\n\n\"Had you not better ask him about it?\"\n\nLady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to\nget a word of truth from her son. \"What do you mean by a large sum?\"\n\n\"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps.\"\n\n\"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune.\" Then it all came\nout,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by\nher son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs\nfrom the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present\nmoment.\n\n\"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury.\" Lady Carbury thought that she\nwas nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. \"You must put a\nstop to this.\"\n\n\"But how?\"\n\n\"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must\nbe done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money\nhe got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That\nmust be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do\nnot contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be\noff now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell\nyou, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early\nto-morrow, that would be best. God bless you.\" And so he hurried off.\n\nEarly on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put\ninto Mr. Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she\nhad been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that\nMr. Melmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of\nthis from Miss Melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance\ndue to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last\nconfessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly\ntrue; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not\njustified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\nA DAY IN THE CITY.\n\n\nMelmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the\nmatter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known\nthat all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet\nSir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of\ncertain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in the\nday the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale\nwould hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in\nthat direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl\nto throw away her chance,--nay, to throw away the certainty of a\nbrilliant career, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was\ninfinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man\nhad pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,--had\ngiven a written pledge,--had renounced under his own signature his\nintention of marrying Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the\ndetails of the cheque for £250,--how the money had been paid at the\nbank to Didon, and how Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself\nacknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible he\nwould prosecute the baronet for stealing his money.\n\nHad Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have\nbeen satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed\nthe money to go without further trouble. At this especial point in\nhis career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns\nwere of such magnitude that £250 could make but little difference.\nBut there had grown upon the man during the last few months an\narrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other\nmen, which clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that\npower of calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He\nremembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix.\nIndeed it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money\ntransactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in\nhis head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He\nknew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom\nhe had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father\nand son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the\npurchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into\nhis hands for the purchase of shares,--and that consignment did not\njustify Sir Felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter.\nIn such a matter he thought that an English magistrate, and an\nEnglish jury, would all be on his side,--especially as he was\nAugustus Melmotte, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the\nman about to entertain the Emperor of China!\n\nThe next day was Friday,--the day of the Railway Board. Early in the\nmorning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale.\n\n\n   MY DEAR NIDDERDALE,--\n\n   Pray come to the Board to-day;--or at any rate come to me\n   in the city. I specially want to speak to you.\n\n   Yours,\n\n   A. M.\n\n\nThis he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make\na clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was\nstill a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance\nwould be best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young\nlord would of course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had\nfor some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in\nregard to Sir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his\nsuit. It might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the\nyoung lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance\nmight on the whole be rather improved than injured.\n\nMr. Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the\nearliest and most unfortunate was Mr. Longestaffe. At that time there\nhad been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double\ningress and egress,--a front stairs and a back stairs approach and\nexit, as is always necessary with very great men,--in reference\nto which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is\nexactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the\nfront stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and\nuncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used\nonly for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of\nthe stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people\nin their right courses. Mr. Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane\nbefore one,--having altogether failed in getting a moment's private\nconversation with the big man on that other Friday, when he had come\nlater. He fell at once into Miles's hands, and was ushered through\nthe front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting-room,\nwith much external courtesy. Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did\nMr. Longestaffe want to see Mr. Melmotte? Oh;--Mr. Longestaffe wanted\nto see Mr. Melmotte as soon as possible! Of course Mr. Longestaffe\nshould see Mr. Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr. Melmotte was\nparticularly desirous of seeing Mr. Longestaffe. Mr. Melmotte had\nmentioned Mr. Longestaffe's name twice during the last three days.\nWould Mr. Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr. Longestaffe\nseen the \"Morning Breakfast Table\"? Mr. Melmotte undoubtedly was\nvery much engaged. At this moment a deputation from the Canadian\nGovernment was with him;--and Sir Gregory Gribe was in the office\nwaiting for a few words. But Miles thought that the Canadian\nGovernment would not be long,--and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his\nbusiness might be postponed. Miles would do his very best to get an\ninterview for Mr. Longestaffe,--more especially as Mr. Melmotte was\nso very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishing\nthat such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business\nso well and should have made himself so handy! We will leave Mr.\nLongestaffe with the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" in his hands, in the\nfront waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained\nfor something over two hours.\n\nIn the mean time both Mr. Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the\noffice, and both were received without delay. Mr. Broune was the\nfirst. Miles knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the\nsame room with Mr. Longestaffe. \"I'll just send him a note,\" said\nMr. Broune, and he scrawled a few words at the office counter. \"I'm\ncommissioned to pay you some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte.\"\nThose were the words, and they at once procured him admission to\nthe sanctum. The Canadian Deputation must have taken its leave, and\nSir Gregory could hardly have as yet arrived. Lord Nidderdale, who\nhad presented himself almost at the same moment with the Editor,\nwas shown into a little private room,--which was, indeed, Miles\nGrendall's own retreat. \"What's up with the Governor?\" asked the\nyoung lord.\n\n\"Anything particular do you mean?\" said Miles. \"There are always so\nmany things up here.\"\n\n\"He has sent for me.\"\n\n\"Yes,--you'll go in directly. There's that fellow who does the\n'Breakfast Table' in with him. I don't know what he's come about. You\nknow what he has sent for you for?\"\n\nLord Nidderdale answered this question by another. \"I suppose all\nthis about Miss Melmotte is true?\"\n\n\"She did go off yesterday morning,\" said Miles, in a whisper.\n\n\"But Carbury wasn't with her.\"\n\n\"Well, no;--I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He's such a\nd---- brute, he'd be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand.\"\n\n\"You don't like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I've no reason\nto love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the club\nyesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as Cloe. He'd lost a pot\nof money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour.\"\n\n\"Brute!\" exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation.\n\n\"I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I'm sure he\ncouldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things\nlying about the club hall late last night;--no end of portmanteaux\nand bags; just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy\ntaking a girl to New York! It was plucky.\"\n\n\"It was all her doing,\" said Miles, who was of course intimate with\nMr. Melmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore of\nhearing the true story.\n\n\"What a fiasco!\" said the young lord, \"I wonder what the old boy\nmeans to say to me about it.\" Then there was heard the clear tingle\nof a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time\nhad come.\n\nMr. Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr. Melmotte, and\nMelmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor he\nimmediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the\nsupport given by the \"Breakfast Table\" to his candidature. But Mr.\nBroune cut him short. \"I never talk about the 'Breakfast Table,'\"\nsaid he. \"We endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less\nsaid the soonest mended.\" Melmotte bowed. \"I have come now about\nquite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended\nabout that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum\nof money in trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented\nits use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's\nfriend, I have called to return the money to you.\" Mr. Broune did not\nlike calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that\nfor the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him.\n\n\"Oh, indeed,\" said Mr. Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he\nwould have repressed if he could.\n\n\"No doubt you understand all about it.\"\n\n\"Yes;--I understand. D---- scoundrel!\"\n\n\"We won't discuss that, Mr. Melmotte. I've drawn a cheque myself,\npayable to your order,--to make the matter all straight. The sum was\n£250, I think.\" And Mr. Broune put a cheque for that amount down upon\nthe table.\n\n\"I dare say it's all right,\" said Mr. Melmotte. \"But, remember, I\ndon't think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel.\"\n\n\"At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his\nhands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's\nbehalf. Good morning.\" Mr. Melmotte did put out his hand in token of\namity. Then Mr. Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As\nNidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into\nhis pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea\nwhich he might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned.\n\"Well, my Lord, and how are you?\" said he with his pleasantest smile.\nNidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. \"You don't look\ndown in the mouth, my Lord.\"\n\nThen Lord Nidderdale,--who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show\na good face before his late intended father-in-law,--sang the refrain\nof an old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember.\n\n         \"Cheer up, Sam;\n     Don't let your spirits go down.\n   There's many a girl that I know well,\n     Is waiting for you in the town.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha,\" laughed Melmotte, \"very good. I've no doubt there\nis,--many a one. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your\nway with Marie.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmotte has given\nthe most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman,\nand of her indifference to me.\"\n\n\"A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She's been\nreading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down\nquietly till she had run off with somebody.\"\n\n\"She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"No;--of course we had her back again from Liverpool.\"\n\n\"But they say that she got further than the gentleman.\"\n\n\"He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what\nhe is now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I'm\nvery sorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always.\nShe's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I\npossess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy,--that\nis, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect\nthat I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching\nmy capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her\noccupying high rank. I think that, in this country, that is a noble\nobject of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken\nmy heart. Now, my Lord, I want you to say that this shall make no\ndifference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide\nanything. The thing of course has been a misfortune. Girls will be\nromantic. But you may be sure that this little accident will assist\nrather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond\nof Sir Felix Carbury.\"\n\n\"I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything.\"\n\n\"She won't forgive him. By George, she shan't. She shall hear the\nwhole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever!\"\n\n\"I don't know about that, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Why not? You're not so weak as to surrender all your settled\nprojects for such a piece of folly as that! He didn't even see her\nall the time.\"\n\n\"That wasn't her fault.\"\n\n\"The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"The money's all right, I've no doubt. And there isn't a man in all\nLondon would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than\nI would. But, by Jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has\njust run away with another man. Everybody knows it.\"\n\n\"In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it.\"\n\n\"To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will of\nher own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me\nthe slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she\ndid once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very much\nchanged since then. The thing was off.\"\n\n\"She had nothing to do with that.\"\n\n\"No;--but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right to\ncomplain.\"\n\n\"You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come\non Sunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settled\narrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday\nmorning about noon?\" Lord Nidderdale thought of his position for\na few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday\nmorning. After that Melmotte proposed that they two should go\nand \"get a bit of lunch\" at a certain Conservative club in the\nCity. There would be time before the meeting of the Railway Board.\nNidderdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong\nopinion that the Board was \"rot.\" \"That's all very well for you,\nyoung man,\" said the chairman, \"but I must go there in order that you\nmay be able to enjoy a splendid fortune.\" Then he touched the young\nman on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the\nfront stairs. \"Come this way, Nidderdale;--come this way. I must get\nout without being seen. There are people waiting for me there who\nthink that a man can attend to business from morning to night without\never having a bit in his mouth.\" And so they escaped by the back\nstairs.\n\nAt the club, the City Conservative world,--which always lunches\nwell,--welcomed Mr. Melmotte very warmly. The election was coming on,\nand there was much to be said. He played the part of the big City man\nto perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talking\nloudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club\nthat Lord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course\nknew that Lord Nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's\ndaughter,--accepted, that is, by the rich man himself,--and the\nclub knew also that the rich man's daughter had tried,--but had\nfailed,--to run away with Sir Felix Carbury. There is nothing like\nwiping out a misfortune and having done with it. The presence of Lord\nNidderdale was almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune\nhad been wiped out, and, as it were, abolished. A little before three\nMr. Melmotte returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room\nby the back way; while Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering\nwithin his own mind whether it was expedient that he should continue\nto show himself as a suitor for Miss Melmotte's hand. He had an idea\nthat a few years ago a man could not have done such a thing--that\nhe would be held to show a poor spirit should he attempt it; but\nthat now it did not much matter what a man did,--if only he were\nsuccessful. \"After all it's only an affair of money,\" he said to\nhimself.\n\nMr. Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to\nimpatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to\nindignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles Grendall\nwas always ready with an answer. That Canadian Deputation was\ndetermined to settle the whole business this morning, and would not\ntake itself away. And Sir Gregory Gribe had been obstinate, beyond\nthe ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at\nthe bank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication\nwith Mr. Melmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were\nalways most oppressive. At first Mr. Longestaffe was somewhat stunned\nby the Deputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth\nthe potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last,\nhe waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr.\nLongestaffe of Caversham, a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and\naccustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock? When he had been in\nthat waiting-room for two hours, it occurred to him that he only\nwanted his own, and that he would not remain there to be starved for\nany Mr. Melmotte in Europe. It occurred to him also that that thorn\nin his side, Squercum, would certainly get a finger into the pie to\nhis infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth, and attempted to see\nGrendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendall also liked his\nlunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be\nengaged at that moment on most important business with Mr. Melmotte.\n\"Then say that I can't wait any longer,\" said Mr. Longestaffe,\nstamping out of the room with angry feet.\n\nAt the very door he met Mr. Melmotte. \"Ah, Mr. Longestaffe,\" said the\ngreat financier, seizing him by the hand, \"you are the very man I am\ndesirous of seeing.\"\n\n\"I have been waiting two hours up in your place,\" said the Squire of\nCaversham.\n\n\"Tut, tut, tut;--and they never told me!\"\n\n\"I spoke to Mr. Grendall half a dozen times.\"\n\n\"Yes,--yes. And he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk.\nI do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that\nI hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the\nBoard? It's just the time now.\"\n\n\"No;\"--said Mr. Longestaffe. \"I can stay no longer in the City.\" It\nwas cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a Board by a\nchairman who had just lunched at his club.\n\n\"I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help\nmyself,\" said Melmotte. \"And when they get me there I can never get\naway again.\"\n\n\"My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering,\"\nsaid Mr. Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the collar of\nhis coat.\n\n\"Payments for Pickering!\" said Melmotte, assuming an air of\nunimportant doubt,--of doubt as though the thing were of no real\nmoment. \"Haven't they been made?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Mr. Longestaffe, \"unless made this morning.\"\n\n\"There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My\nsecond cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they\ngo clean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at this\nmoment. Let me see;--Pickering! Wasn't there some question of a\nmortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage.\"\n\n\"There was a mortgage, of course;--but that only made three payments\nnecessary instead of two.\"\n\n\"But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--something\noccasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan't be\ninconvenienced, Mr. Longestaffe.\"\n\n\"It's my son, Mr. Melmotte. He's got a lawyer of his own.\"\n\n\"I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money,\" said\nMelmotte laughing. \"Oh, yes;--there were three payments to be made;\none to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak\nto Mr. Smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that he\nreally need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his money,\nfor lawyers are expensive. What; you won't come to the Board? I am\nsorry for that.\" Mr. Longestaffe, having after a fashion said what he\nhad to say, declined to go to the Board. A painful rumour had reached\nhim the day before, which had been communicated to him in a very\nquiet way by a very old friend,--by a member of a private firm of\nbankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most\neminent man of his acquaintance,--that Pickering had been already\nmortgaged to its full value by its new owner. \"Mind, I know nothing,\"\nsaid the banker. \"The report has reached me, and if it be true, it\nshows that Mr. Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It does\nnot concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seems to\nbe rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't\nhave the title-deeds.\" Mr. Longestaffe thanked his friend, and\nacknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part.\nTherefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. But\nnevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte's manner.\n\nSir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did Paul\nMontague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted.\nLord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the City for that\nday, and Mr. Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman\nwas therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe. But\nthey were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as\nwell as though those absentees had all attended. When the Board was\nover Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Cohenlupe retired together.\n\n\"I must get that money for Longestaffe,\" said Melmotte to his friend.\n\n\"What, eighty thousand pounds! You can't do it this week,--nor yet\nbefore this day week.\"\n\n\"It isn't eighty thousand pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and that\nmakes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes to\nthe son, I can put the father off.\"\n\n\"You must raise what you can on the whole property.\"\n\n\"I've done that already,\" said Melmotte hoarsely.\n\n\"And where's the money gone?\"\n\n\"Brehgert has had £40,000. I was obliged to keep it up with them.\nYou can manage £25,000 for me by Monday?\" Mr. Cohenlupe said that he\nwould try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable\ndifficulty in the operation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\nTHE INDIA OFFICE.\n\n\nThe Conservative party at this particular period was putting its\nshoulder to the wheel,--not to push the coach up any hill, but\nto prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only\ndangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative party now and\nthen does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great\nnational object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire to\nkeep its own head well above water and be generally doing something,\nso that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are,\nno doubt, members of it who really think that when some object has\nbeen achieved,--when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed\ninto Parliament for the borough of Porcorum, which for the last three\nparliaments has been represented by a Liberal,--the coach has been\nreally stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at\nthese triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as\na people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take\nsomething from the greatness of the great, and to add something to\nthe lowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been\nbroken, the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope\nof Radical progress is running back. Who knows what may not be\nregained if the Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the\nwheel and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended!\nSticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has\njust been carried by a majority of fifteen! A long pull, a strong\npull, and a pull altogether,--and the old day will come back again.\nVenerable patriarchs think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and\ndream dreams of Conservative bishops, Conservative lord-lieutenants,\nand of a Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation.\n\nSuch a time was now present. Porcorum and Sticinthemud had done their\nduty valiantly,--with much management. But Westminster! If this\nspecial seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could\nhardly any longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr. Melmotte\ncould be got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people\nwere sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been\neffected during the last forty years,--from the first reform in\nParliament down to the Ballot,--had been managed by the cunning and\ntreachery of a few ambitious men. Not, however, that the Ballot was\njust now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it\nwas the last triumph of Radical wickedness. The Ballot was on the\nwhole popular with the party. A short time since, no doubt it was\nregarded by the party as being one and the same as national ruin and\nnational disgrace. But it had answered well at Porcorum, and with due\nmanipulation had been found to be favourable at Sticinthemud. The\nBallot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull,--and, in\nspite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a\nhighly Conservative measure. It was considered that the Ballot might\nassist Melmotte at Westminster very materially.\n\nAny one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing the\nConservative speeches in the borough,--any one at least who lived so\nremote as not to have learned what these things really mean,--would\nhave thought that England's welfare depended on Melmotte's return.\nIn the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character\nwere answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief\ncrime laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great\ncontinental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had\nso managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous\nfortune of his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had\nbrought to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from\nthe shareholders in the company. Now the \"Evening Pulpit,\" in its\nendeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed\nwhat it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it was\nascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placed\nat Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no\nmerchant of higher honour than Mr. Melmotte had ever adorned the\nExchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of\nthe time, both of them antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to be in\naccord on a material point. One declared that Mr. Melmotte was not in\ntruth possessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his\nwealth from those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray\nso bad a cause as contradictions such as these? Could anything\nbe so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so\nself-condemned,--in fact, so \"Liberal\" as a course of action such\nas this? The belief naturally to be deduced from such statements,\nnay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds--of, at any rate, the\nConservative newspapers--was that Mr. Melmotte had accumulated an\nimmense fortune, and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a\nshilling.\n\nThe friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were\nenabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes\nquite external to their party. The \"Breakfast Table\" supported\nMelmotte, but the \"Breakfast Table\" was not a Conservative organ.\nThis support was given, not to the great man's political opinions, as\nto which a well-known writer in that paper suggested that the great\nman had probably not as yet given very much attention to the party\nquestions which divided the country,--but to his commercial position.\nIt was generally acknowledged that few men living,--perhaps no man\nalive,--had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions\nof the age as Mr. Augustus Melmotte. In whatever part of the world he\nmight have acquired his commercial experience,--for it had been said\nrepeatedly that Melmotte was not an Englishman,--he now made London\nhis home and Great Britain his country, and it would be for the\nwelfare of the country that such a man should sit in the British\nParliament. Such were the arguments used by the \"Breakfast Table\" in\nsupporting Mr. Melmotte. This was, of course, an assistance;--and not\nthe less so because it was asserted in other papers that the country\nwould be absolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The\nhotter the opposition the keener will be the support. Honest good\nmen, men who really loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had\nreceived unsullied names from great ancestors, shed their money right\nand left, and grew hot in personally energetic struggles to have this\nman returned to Parliament as the head of the great Conservative\nmercantile interests of Great Britain!\n\nThere was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the\npresent moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was the\nreturn of Mr. Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a\nvery ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question\nwhich had vexed England for the last half century,--nothing whatever\nof the political history which had made England what it was at the\nbeginning of that half century. Of such names as Hampden, Somers, and\nPitt he had hardly ever heard. He had probably never read a book in\nhis life. He knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of\nnationality,--had no preference whatever for one form of government\nover another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on\nthe subject. He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or\na federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not\ncomprehend the meaning of those terms. But yet he was fully confident\nthat England did demand and ought to demand that Mr. Melmotte should\nbe returned for Westminster. This man was Mr. Melmotte himself.\n\nIn this conjunction of his affairs Mr. Melmotte certainly lost his\nhead. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game\nwhich he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he\nbecame deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself\nas the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those who\nopposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of\ntheir own to serve. He went about in his open carriage, with Lord\nAlfred at his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to\nimply that Westminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted\nto certain political friends that at the next general election he\nshould try the City. Six months since he had been a humble man to a\nLord,--but now he scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in\na manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with\ntheir social pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which\nsuch pre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more\narrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even Lord Alfred\nwould almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom.\nPerhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect.\nNo doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who\ntake other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. Such\npersons could not refrain from thinking Melmotte to be mighty because\nhe swaggered; and gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because\nhe put up his toe. We all know men of this calibre,--and how they\nseem to grow in number. But the net result of his personal demeanour\nwas injurious; and it was debated among some of the warmest of his\nsupporters whether a hint should not be given him. \"Couldn't Lord\nAlfred say a word to him?\" said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk,\nwho, himself in Parliament, a leading man in his party, thoroughly\nwell acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with\nhalf the great Conservative families in the kingdom, had been moving\nheaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king, and working\nlike a slave for his success.\n\n\"Alfred's more than half afraid of him,\" said Lionel Lupton, a young\naristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the\nidea that the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in Parliament,\nbut who would have given up his Scotch shooting rather than have\nundergone Melmotte's company for a day.\n\n\"Something really must be done, Mr. Beauclerk,\" said Mr. Jones, who\nwas the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the\nborough, who had become a Conservative politician, who had thoughts\nof the House for himself, but who never forgot his own position. \"He\nis making a great many personal enemies.\"\n\n\"He's the finest old turkey cock out,\" said Lionel Lupton.\n\nThen it was decided that Mr. Beauclerk should speak a word to Lord\nAlfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had always\nbeen intimate. \"Alfred,\" said the chosen mentor at the club one\nafternoon, \"I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotte\nabout his manner.\" Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into his\ncompanion's face. \"They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he\ndoesn't mean it. Couldn't he draw it a little milder?\"\n\nLord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. \"If you ask me, I\ndon't think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you\nmight make him mild. I don't think there's any other way.\"\n\n\"You couldn't speak to him, then?\"\n\n\"Not unless I did it with a horsewhip.\"\n\nThis, coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on the\nman, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that\nmorning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going about\nthe borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him at\nmeetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms,--and had been\nnauseated with Melmotte. When spoken to about his friend he could not\nrestrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and\nfound the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost\ninsupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first, when\nhe was called Alfred; but now that he was told \"just to open the\ndoor,\" and \"just to give that message,\" he almost meditated revenge.\nLord Nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of\nthis in Grosvenor Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had invested\npart of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr. Beauclerk, when he\nhad got his answer, whistled and withdrew. But he was true to his\nparty. Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives\nhad taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a\ngod.\n\nThe Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained\none night at the India Office. The Secretary of State for the second\ngreat Asiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. This\nwas on Saturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte's dinner was to take\nplace on the following Monday. Very great interest was made by the\nLondon world generally to obtain admission to the India Office,--the\nmaking of such interest consisting in the most abject begging for\ntickets of admission, addressed to the Secretary of State, to all\nthe under secretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of\ndepartments, chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives.\nIf a petitioner could not be admitted as a guest into the splendour\nof the reception rooms, might not he,--or she,--be allowed to stand\nin some passage whence the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen,--so\nthat, if possible, the petitioner's name might be printed in the\nlist of guests which would be published on the next morning? Now Mr.\nMelmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with tickets. He,\nwho was to spend a fortune in giving the Emperor a dinner, was of\ncourse entitled to be present at other places to which the Emperor\nwould be brought to be shown. Melmotte had already seen the Emperor\nat a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a ball in royal halls. But\nhitherto he had not been presented to the Emperor. Presentations have\nto be restricted,--if only on the score of time; and it had been\nthought that as Mr. Melmotte would of course have some communication\nwith the hardworked Emperor at his own house, that would suffice. But\nhe had felt himself to be ill-used and was offended. He spoke with\nbitterness to some of his supporters of the Royal Family generally,\nbecause he had not been brought to the front rank either at the\nbreakfast or at the ball,--and now, at the India Office, was\ndetermined to have his due. But he was not on the list of those whom\nthe Secretary of State intended on this occasion to present to the\nBrother of the Sun.\n\nHe had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken to\ndining freely,--which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at all\nhours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he\nwas tipsy. He was a man whom wine did not often affect after that\nfashion. But it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his\narrogance till he was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some\nmoment after dinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting\nwhip of which he had spoken. Melmotte went with his wife and daughter\nto the India Office, and soon left them far in the background with a\nrequest,--we may say an order,--to Lord Alfred to take care of them.\nIt may be observed here that Marie Melmotte was almost as great a\ncuriosity as the Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl\nwho had attempted to run away to New York, but had gone without her\nlover. Melmotte entertained some foolish idea that as the India\nOffice was in Westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an\nintroduction on this occasion because of his candidature. He did\nsucceed in getting hold of an unfortunate under secretary of state, a\nstudious and invaluable young peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was\na shy man, of enormous wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great\nphysical ability, who never amused himself; but worked hard night and\nday, and read everything that anybody could write, and more than any\nother person could read, about India. Had Mr. Melmotte wanted to know\nthe exact dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the\nPunjaub, or the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would have\ninformed him without a pause. But in this matter of managing the\nEmperor, the under secretary had nothing to do, and would have been\nthe last man to be engaged in such a service. He was, however, second\nin command at the India Office, and of his official rank Melmotte was\nunfortunately made aware. \"My Lord,\" said he, by no means hiding\nhis demand in a whisper, \"I am desirous of being presented to his\nImperial Majesty.\" Lord De Griffin looked at him in despair, not\nknowing the great man,--being one of the few men in that room who did\nnot know him.\n\n\"This is Mr. Melmotte,\" said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladies\nand still stuck to his master. \"Lord De Griffin, let me introduce you\nto Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Oh--oh--oh,\" said Lord De Griffin, just putting out his hand. \"I am\ndelighted;--ah, yes,\" and pretending to see somebody, he made a weak\nand quite ineffectual attempt to escape.\n\nMelmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity\nrepeated his demand. \"I am desirous of being presented to his\nImperial Majesty. Will you do me the honour of making my request\nknown to Mr. Wilson?\" Mr. Wilson was the Secretary of State, who was\nas busy as a Secretary of State is sure to be on such an occasion.\n\n\"I hardly know,\" said Lord De Griffin. \"I'm afraid it's all arranged.\nI don't know anything about it myself.\"\n\n\"You can introduce me to Mr. Wilson.\"\n\n\"He's up there, Mr. Melmotte; and I couldn't get at him. Really you\nmust excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him I'll tell him.\" And the\npoor under secretary again endeavoured to escape.\n\nMr. Melmotte put up his hand and stopped him. \"I'm not going to stand\nthis kind of thing,\" he said. The old Marquis of Auld Reekie was\nclose at hand, the father of Lord Nidderdale, and therefore the\nproposed father-in-law of Melmotte's daughter, and he poked his\nthumb heavily into Lord Alfred's ribs. \"It is generally understood,\nI believe,\" continued Melmotte, \"that the Emperor is to do me the\nhonour of dining at my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there\nunless I'm made acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what\nI say. I ain't going to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good\nenough to be presented to him. Perhaps you'd better let Mr. Wilson\nknow, as a good many people intend to come.\"\n\n\"Here's a row,\" said the old Marquis. \"I wish he'd be as good as his\nword.\"\n\n\"He has taken a little wine,\" whispered Lord Alfred. \"Melmotte,\" he\nsaid, still whispering; \"upon my word it isn't the thing. They're\nonly Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here,--not a\nfellow among 'em all who hasn't been in India or China, or isn't a\nSecretary of State, or something of that kind.\"\n\n\"Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball,\" said\nMelmotte, pulling down his waistcoat. \"By George, Alfred! I'm in\nearnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to\nhis Imperial Majesty to-night, by G----, there shall be no dinner\nin Grosvenor Square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, I\nsuppose, to be able to manage that.\"\n\nHere was a row, as the Marquis had said! Lord De Griffin was\nfrightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done.\n\"There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his\nobstinacy,\" Lord Alfred said to Mr. Lupton, who was there. It no\ndoubt might have been wise to have allowed the merchant prince to\nreturn home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned.\nHe would have repented probably before the next morning; and had\nhe continued obdurate it would not have been difficult to explain\nto Celestial Majesty that something preferable had been found for\nthat particular evening even to a banquet at the house of British\ncommerce. The Government would probably have gained the seat for\nWestminster, as Melmotte would at once have become very unpopular\nwith the great body of his supporters. But Lord De Griffin was not\nthe man to see this. He did make his way up to Mr. Wilson, and\nexplained to the Amphytrion of the night the demand which was made\non his hospitality. A thoroughly well-established and experienced\npolitical Minister of State always feels that if he can make a friend\nor appease an enemy without paying a heavy price he will be doing a\ngood stroke of business. \"Bring him up,\" said Mr. Wilson. \"He's going\nto do something out in the East, isn't he?\" \"Nothing in India,\" said\nLord De Griffin. \"The submarine telegraph is quite impossible.\" Mr.\nWilson, instructing some satellite to find out in what way he might\nproperly connect Mr. Melmotte with China, sent Lord De Griffin away\nwith his commission.\n\n\"My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself,\" Mr.\nMelmotte was saying when the under secretary returned. \"I know my own\nposition and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be d----\nif any of the lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday.\" Lord\nAlfred was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to\nthe Prime Minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of\nacquainting him with the terrible calamity which was threatened. But\nthe arrival of the under secretary saved him the trouble.\n\n\"If you will come with me,\" whispered Lord De Griffin, \"it shall be\nmanaged. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be\ndone.\"\n\n\"I do wish it,\" said Melmotte aloud. He was one of those men whom\nsuccess never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained always\ndemanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet.\n\n\"If you will be so kind as to follow me,\" said Lord De Griffin. And\nso the thing was done. Melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperial\nfootstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at\nthe moment of interpreters,--of the double interpreters whom the\nMajesty of China required; but the awful, quiescent solemnity of the\ncelestial one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a\nword even of his own banquet.\n\nBut he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor Mr.\nLongestaffe's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable. Lord Alfred\ntried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her daughter into\nthe carriage, but Melmotte insisted on his presence. \"You might as\nwell come, Alfred;--there are two or three things I must settle\nbefore I go to bed.\"\n\n\"I'm about knocked up,\" said the unfortunate man.\n\n\"Knocked up, nonsense! Think what I've been through. I've been all\nday at the hardest work a man can do.\" Had he as usual got in first,\nleaving his man-of-all-work to follow, the man-of-all-work would\nhave escaped. Melmotte, fearing such defection, put his hand on Lord\nAlfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. As they were taken\nhome a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible, but as the words\nwere not distinguished they required no painful attention; but when\nthe soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in Mr.\nLongestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a full\nblast. \"I mean to let the fellows know what's what,\" said Melmotte,\nwalking about the room. Lord Alfred had thrown himself into an\narm-chair, and was consoling himself as best he might with tobacco.\n\"Give and take is a very good motto. If I scratch their back, I\nmean them to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend ten\nthousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private\nenterprise. I don't know of any other man of business who could\ndo it, or would do it. It's not much any of them can do for me.\nThank God, I don't want 'em. But if consideration is to be shown\nto anybody, I intend to be considered. The Prince treated me very\nscurvily, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him\nso on Monday. I suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own\nguests.\"\n\n\"You might turn the election against you if you said anything the\nPrince didn't like.\"\n\n\"D---- the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster\nas a man of business, not as a courtier,--as a man who understands\ncommercial enterprise, not as one of the Prince's toadies. Some of\nyou fellows in England don't realise the matter yet; but I can tell\nyou that I think myself quite as great a man as any Prince.\" Lord\nAlfred looked at him, with strong reminiscences of the old ducal\nhome, and shuddered. \"I'll teach them a lesson before long. Didn't I\nteach 'em a lesson to-night,--eh? They tell me that Lord De Griffin\nhas sixty thousand a-year to spend. What's sixty thousand a year?\nDidn't I make him go on my business? And didn't I make 'em do as I\nchose? You want to tell me this and that, but I can tell you that I\nknow more of men and women than some of you fellows do, who think you\nknow a great deal.\"\n\nThis went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards,\nas Lord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount\nStreet, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of\nescaping from his present servitude. \"Beast! Brute! Pig!\" he said to\nhimself over and over again as he slowly went to Mount Street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\nCLERICAL CHARITIES.\n\n\nMelmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's antecedents\nwere much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen\nthere in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes\nfrom sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those parts\nknew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London.\nThe purchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all\nthe Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his past\nfrauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune,\nwere as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest\nman in England. Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also been\ncommunicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not\nrecognised as being \"real Suffolk\" himself, was so far connected\nwith Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality\nrespecting the Melmottes generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned.\nSuffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmotte fashion.\nSuffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably\nConservative, did not believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member\nof Parliament. Suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the\nLongestaffes, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the\nother day, as Suffolk counts days, since the original Longestaffe was\nin trade. This selling of Pickering, and especially the selling of\nit to Melmotte, was a mean thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly\nbelieved that Melmotte had picked the very bones of every shareholder\nin that Franco-Austrian Assurance Company.\n\nMr. Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking\nabout him,--or talking rather of the attempted elopement. \"I know\nnothing about it,\" said Roger, \"and I do not intend to ask. Of course\nI did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I\ndid believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father\nhad consented or not I never enquired.\"\n\n\"It seems he did not consent.\"\n\n\"Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than\nsuch a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the 'Gazette' before\nlong, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep\none if he had it.\"\n\n\"You think Melmotte will turn out a failure.\"\n\n\"A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a\nmiserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to\nend,--too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that\nhis position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we\ncoming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?\"\n\n\"At just a table here and there,\" suggested his friend.\n\n\"No;--it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so\ncan I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do\nset the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs\nin return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate\nthey believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler\ngreater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence?\nMen reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean\nto be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then\nthere comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the\napproval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all\nthe world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte\nis not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general.\"\n\nRoger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero\nwas discussed under a different heading. \"He has given £200,\" said\nthe Bishop, \"to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man\ncould spend his money much better than that.\"\n\n\"Clap-trap!\" said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter.\n\n\"The money is not clap-trap, my friend. I presume that the money is\nreally paid.\"\n\n\"I don't feel at all sure of that.\"\n\n\"Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very\nready to make known defalcations on the part of promising\nsubscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the\nelection.\"\n\n\"And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?\"\n\n\"Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,--and I am\nalways for encouraging useful men.\"\n\n\"Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?\"\n\n\"There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte\nwishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side\nwhich you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that\nrespect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter\nof ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not\nknow why we should say that it is vile in this man.\" Roger frowned\nand shook his head. \"Of course Mr. Melmotte is not the sort of\ngentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member\nfor a Conservative constituency. But the country is changing.\"\n\n\"It's going to the dogs, I think;--about as fast as it can go.\"\n\n\"We build churches much faster than we used to do.\"\n\n\"Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?\" asked the\nSquire.\n\n\"It is very hard to see into the minds of men,\" said the Bishop;\n\"but we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men\non the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago.\nThere is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to\nanother, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm,\nless also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury,\nby following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms\nbefore them.\"\n\n\"I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would be\ndone by.\"\n\n\"There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be\nsaved even if they have not practised at all times that grand\nself-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for,\nnay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may\ncommit,--of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready\nto forgive in that way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation\nat being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing\nyour actions or the causes of them; and do you never judge others\nafter that fashion?\"\n\n\"I do not put myself forward as an example.\"\n\n\"I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt\nto forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in\ngeneral. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich\nand the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not\nworse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace\ndid, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look\nonly at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of\nthe world at large.\"\n\n\"But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when\nHorace wrote.\"\n\n\"But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit\nby wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has\nnot freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?\"\n\n\"In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do you\nremember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured\nthe Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar\nto post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear\nMelmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the man\nto be Conservative member for Westminster?\"\n\n\"Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?\"\n\n\"I think I know that they are deserved.\"\n\n\"That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man\nis what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of\nhis punishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad\ntime of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps\nis managed more justly than you think, Mr. Carbury.\"\n\n\"My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart,\" said Roger, as he\ntook his leave.\n\n\"Very likely,--very likely. Only don't say so to the Prime Minister,\nor I shall never get any of the better things which may be going.\"\n\nThe Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was\ntherefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in\ngeneral than Roger Carbury. To Roger everything seemed to be out\nof joint. He had that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury,\nreminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come to her\nof great need. It had come very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in\nthe least begrudge the hundred pounds which he had already sent to\nhis cousin; but he did begrudge any furtherance afforded to the\niniquitous schemes of Sir Felix. He felt all but sure that the\nfoolish mother had given her son money for his abortive attempt, and\nthat therefore this appeal had been made to him. He alluded to no\nsuch fear in his letter. He simply enclosed the cheque, and expressed\na hope that the amount might suffice for the present emergency. But\nhe was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the\nCarbury family. There was Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as\nMrs. Hurtle down to Lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing\nhis visits to her, and, as Roger thought, utterly unable to free\nhimself from his toils,--and yet, on this man's account, Hetta was\ncold and hard to him. He was conscious of the honesty of his own\nlove, sure that he could make her happy,--confident, not in himself,\nbut in the fashion and ways of his own life. What would be Hetta's\nlot if her heart was really given to Paul Montague?\n\nWhen he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. An\naccident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment.\nThe wind had blown the roof off his cottage; and Roger Carbury,\nthough his affection for the priest was waning, had offered him\nshelter while the damage was being repaired. Shelter at Carbury Manor\nwas very much more comfortable than the priest's own establishment,\neven with the roof on, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham\nwas reading his own favourite newspaper, \"The Surplice,\" when Roger\nentered the room. \"Have you seen this, Mr. Carbury?\" he said.\n\n\"What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongs\npeculiarly to 'The Surplice.'\"\n\n\"That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican\nChurch. Mr. Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man,\nand will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the\nglobe.\"\n\n\"Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I'll make you a present of him, and\nthank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such good\nriddance.\"\n\nThen Father Barham read a paragraph out of \"The Surplice.\" \"Mr.\nAugustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented\na hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church\nof St. Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied\nby a letter from Mr. Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little\ndoubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member, and no\ninconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during the\nnext session.\"\n\n\"That's another dodge, is it?\" said Carbury.\n\n\"What do you mean by a dodge, Mr. Carbury? Because money is given for\na pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a\ndodge?\"\n\n\"But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave\n£200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the\nBishop exulting in this great act of charity.\"\n\n\"I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the\nChurch to which he belonged in his darkness.\"\n\n\"And you would be really proud of Mr. Melmotte as a convert?\"\n\n\"I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul,\" said\nthe priest; \"but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the\ngreat.\"\n\n\"The great! oh dear!\"\n\n\"A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of\nMr. Melmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our\nown, it is a great sign to us that the Truth is prevailing.\" Roger\nCarbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\nFATHER BARHAM VISITS LONDON.\n\n\nIt was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic\nvote in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great\nthing both in the House and out of the House to \"catch\" Roman\nCatholic votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or\nthat individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he\npersonally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may\nbe extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people\nof the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being\nmade towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is\nthe easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The\npromoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as\ngood a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be\nconciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an\nenemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very\nefficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic\nin Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation\nis coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same\nconviction has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant,--that is\nthe peculiarly Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the\nsame instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been\nattempted before, and was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his\nfriends. It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants\nwould not notice the £100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but\nMr. Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious\nopinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large. During\nall that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article\nthat created so much general interest as that which appeared in the\n\"Evening Pulpit,\" with a special question asked at the head of it,\n\"For Priest or Parson?\" In this article, which was more than usually\ndelightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as\nbeing unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man, who did\nthat business, declared that it was really important that the nation\nat large and especially the electors of Westminster should know what\nwas the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly\nreligious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities\non behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been\nmade just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular\ncontinuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The\n\"Evening Pulpit\" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended\nto have any reference to the approaching election. Far be it from\nthe \"Evening Pulpit\" to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte\nlooked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity.\nBut still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented\nin Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as\nnaturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr.\nMelmotte would not object to declare his creed.\n\nThis was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr. Melmotte and his\nmanager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any\nway. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St. Fabricius\nwith one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must\nleave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants\nchose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics\nthat he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any\nenthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would\nnot allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested\nmalignity of Mr. Alf's newspaper.\n\nIt may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society\ndid have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in\nsome few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to\nreligion and torpid as to politics. But the donation to St. Fabricius\ncertainly had results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman\nCatholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and\nalmost believed that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of\nRome. These manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may\nfollow instead of good. On the second afternoon after the question\nhad been asked in the \"Evening Pulpit,\" an answer to it appeared,\n\"For Priest and not for Parson.\" Therein various assertions made by\nRoman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were\nbrought together, so as to show that Mr. Melmotte really had at last\nmade up his mind on this important question. All the world knew\nnow, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty\nwhich was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic,--the Great\nFinancier was the name which Mr. Alf had specially invented for Mr.\nMelmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in\nupon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as\na Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this\nother doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a\ngolden certainty had been produced. The world of Westminster at last\nknew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Now nothing was clearer\nthan this,--that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help\na candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned. This\nlast article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to\nsend a letter to the \"Breakfast Table\" asserting that he adhered\nto the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected\nby many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that\nMelmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been\ntoo strong. \"Do nothing of the kind,\" said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk.\n\"If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a\nProtestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people.\nDon't go writing letters.\"\n\nBut unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such\na godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined\nto cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I\nthink that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a\nbeauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent\nRomanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready\nto believe. And they have a desire for the conversion of men which\nis honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means\nwhich they employ to produce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice\nanything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his\nhealth, his money when he had any, and his life. Much as he liked the\ncomfort of Carbury Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to\nensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. Roger\nCarbury was hard of heart. He could see that. But the dropping of\nwater might hollow the stone. If the dropping should be put an end\nto by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that\nwould not be his fault. He at any rate would do his duty. In that\nfixed resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple\nwhatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as\nto the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of\nhis life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up\nhis mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a\ngreat instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the enormous\nproportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in\nall quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by\n\"The Surplice,\" that the man was at heart a Catholic. That a man\nshould be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing the\nProtestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable or\ndistressing. Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration.\nBy such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able\nto keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was a mystery and\nreligious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young\npriest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar\ntime,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He\nhad for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in\norder that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who\nfrom time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius.\nAnd so, just at this season of the Westminster election, Father\nBarham made a journey to London.\n\nHe had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr.\nMelmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or\ntwo as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a\nhappiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who\nwas perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to\nhis country. On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr.\nMelmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India\nOffice,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius;\nhe spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church\nservices of the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied\nforth in quest of Mr. Melmotte. Having obtained that address from\nsome circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and\non the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was\nnot expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present\nprivate residence in Bruton Street. There he was told that the great\nman might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in\nthe square Father Barham was at last successful. Mr. Melmotte was\nthere superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the\nEmperor.\n\nThe servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault\nin giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in\ngreat confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being\nsuspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden\ncapitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the\nsmell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being\nmoved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together\nfor the accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and\npoor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster\nelection, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the\nEmperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations\nwere carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon\nfind himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.\n\nMr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was\nstanding in front of the chair which had been arranged for the\nEmperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry\nindeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first\nplanned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which\nhe had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of\nthe Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial\nOne himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be\ndone. In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his\nMajesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses\nwho sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next\nto the princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr.\nMelmotte's own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was\nhaving a very bad time of it. \"It's that fellow from 'The Herald'\noffice did it, not me,\" he said, almost in a passion. \"I don't know\nhow people ought to sit. But that's the reason.\"\n\n\"I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house,\"\nwere the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham\nwalked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived\nby either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in\nvain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been\nput up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared\nfor him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own\nhall. \"Who the d---- are you?\" he asked, when the priest appeared\nclose before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar.\nIt was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek\napparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that\nage can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little,\nbut in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the\nstranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely\npriest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.\n\nFather Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite\npluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an\nenterprise,--was the rule of his life. \"I am the Rev. Mr. Barham,\"\nsaid the visitor. \"I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I\nam speaking to Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: Father Barham.]\n\n\n\"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you\nare aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room\nwithout any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred,\nwho ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles.\nCan anybody who pleases walk into my hall?\"\n\n\"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,\" said\nthe priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain\nhis mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it\nbetter, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man\nhimself.\n\n\"Is it business?\" asked Lord Alfred.\n\n\"Certainly it is business,\" said Father Barham with a smile.\n\n\"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the\nCity,\" said his lordship.\n\n\"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross,\nwho is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his\nheart is inclined to the true Faith.\"\n\n\"Some lunatic,\" said Melmotte. \"See that there ain't any knives\nabout, Alfred.\"\n\n\"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who\nare enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others.\"\n\n\"Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go\naway.\"\n\n\"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte,\" continued the\npriest. \"If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--\"\n\n\"Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not\ngo away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows\nhim.\"\n\n\"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend.\"\n\n\"Carbury! D---- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here?\nA set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of\nhim?\"\n\n\"You'd better go,\" said Lord Alfred. \"Don't make a rumpus, there's a\ngood fellow;--but just go.\"\n\n\"There shall be no rumpus,\" said the priest, waxing wrathful. \"I\nasked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own\nservants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this\nfashion?\"\n\n\"You're in the way,\" said Lord Alfred.\n\n\"It's a piece of gross impertinence,\" said Melmotte. \"Go away.\"\n\n\"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one\nwhose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one\nstill in error and in darkness?\"\n\n\"What the mischief does he mean?\" asked Melmotte.\n\n\"He wants to know whether you're a papist,\" said Lord Alfred.\n\n\"What the deuce is it to him?\" almost screamed Melmotte;--whereupon\nFather Barham bowed and took his leave.\n\n\"That's a remarkable thing,\" said Melmotte,--\"very remarkable.\" Even\nthis poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. \"I suppose he\nwas in earnest.\"\n\n\"Mad as a hatter,\" said Lord Alfred.\n\n\"But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's\nwhat I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man\nin all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble\nservant. I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here\nnow to find out really what is my religion.\"\n\n\"Mad as a hatter,\" said Lord Alfred again;--\"just that and no more.\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far.\nThe truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend\nthat they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em\nunderstands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know.\nI shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?\"\n\n\"What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about.\"\n\n\"I'll have this bar down, at any rate.\" And he did succeed in having\nremoved the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his\nintrusion on his own guests in his own house. \"I look upon that\nfellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times,\" he went\non to say. \"They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes\nmade, and who measures me for my boots!\" Perhaps the most remarkable\ncircumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that\nhe came almost to believe in himself.\n\nFather Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether\ndisheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman\nCatholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed\nand cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must\nhave known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to\nthis priest, who had been born an English gentleman, as being no\ngentleman. But, not the less might he be a good Catholic,--or good\nenough at any rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes\nMelmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more\nhopeful man than Roger Carbury. \"He insulted me,\" said Father Barham\nto a brother religionist that evening within the cloisters of St.\nFabricius.\n\n\"Did he intend to insult you?\"\n\n\"Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of\npolished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be\ndone. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was\nintent upon that.\"\n\n\"He entertains the Emperor of China this very day,\" said the brother\npriest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what\nwas being done.\n\n\"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he\nis on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for\nsaying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?\"\n\n\"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them.\"\n\n\"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose,\" said Father Barham.\n\n\"Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the\nworld.\"\n\n\"He looked like it,--and spoke like it,\" said Father Barham. \"Think\nwhat such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the\nworld! And if he had been against us would he not have said so?\nThough he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him.\" Father Barham, with\na simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning,\nmade himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte\nwas certainly a Roman Catholic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\nLORD NIDDERDALE TRIES HIS HAND AGAIN.\n\n\nLord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie\nMelmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's\nhouse on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that\npromise had been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not\nseen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking,\nhe did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His\nfather's property was not very large. His father and his grandfather\nhad both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something\ntowards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been an\nunderstood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry\nan heiress. In such families as his, when such results have been\nachieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right\nby an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, and\nis almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things.\nRank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank\nby re-gilding its splendour. The arrangement, as it affects the\naristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of\nby the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified in\neating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew\nas a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had\nentertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never\nalarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any\nundowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to \"have his fling\"\nbefore he devoted himself to the redintegration of the family\nproperty. His father had felt that it would be wrong and might\nprobably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded\nall the circumstances of \"the fling\" with indulgent eyes. But there\narose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and\nthe father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son\nthat if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with\ninternecine war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose sense\nand temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light.\nHe assured his father that he had no intention of \"cutting up rough,\"\ndeclared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress\nshould be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task\nimposed on him. This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle\nduring the last winter, and the reader knows the result.\n\nBut the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis\nhad been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost\nunlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred\nthousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But\nhere there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance\nwhich might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous\nfor its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The\nold man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties\nhad been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly\ntwo difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady\npreferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat,\nnot only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as\nto its very existence.\n\nThe Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he\ncould learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so\nmuch money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to\nsecure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means\nenough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already\nsettled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her\nfather had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the\nincome,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that\nin the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire\nto obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again\nwith whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not\nanticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact\nthat he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little\nharbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie\nhad been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. And the\nMarquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before\nshe herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would\nbe so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder\nin prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering was\nto be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds,\nand had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should\nhave been fixed with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis's\nlawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had\ndetermined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember that\nthose dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind,\nhave been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet\nreached the Marquis in all its details.\n\nBut Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte\ndeclared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted\nto have one little fling of her own before she settled down for\nlife,--was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had\nnot gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended\nwife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. \"She'll be\nsick of him by this time, I should say,\" his father said to him.\n\"What does it matter, if the money's there?\" The Marquis seemed to\nthink that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against\nhis son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with\nMelmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged\nto himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she was\npossessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening\nhe had determined that he would try again. He had expected that the\nplum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to\npick it.\n\nOn the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time.\nMelmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work\nin the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to\nhim. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be\nsent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after\nthey had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands\nwith her,--of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting\na brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real\ndifficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her\nposition was uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover\nand has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find\nit difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run\naway without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with\nher, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred,\nher state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage\nwas good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord\nNidderdale.\n\nMelmotte was very gracious to the young lord. \"Did you ever hear\nanything like that, Nidderdale?\" he said, speaking of the priest's\nvisit.\n\n\"Mad as a hatter,\" said Lord Alfred.\n\n\"I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had\nbeen sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an\nArchbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see\nto that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't\nthere, Alfred?\" Alfred shook his head. \"There's a Dean, I know, for\nI called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought\nall those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the\nfellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil\nto him.\"\n\n\"Mad as a hatter;--nothing else,\" said Lord Alfred.\n\n\"You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as\na play to you.\"\n\n\"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir.\"\n\n\"D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it,\" said Melmotte, frowning. \"We must\ngo back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are\nnot looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready\nat exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive\nat eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame,\nwill have to receive your guests in the drawing-room.\" The ladies\nwent up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe\nsoon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear\nfriend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame\nMelmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which\nshe found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had\nhappened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. As\nregarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming\nalmost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and\nprobably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her present\nduty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that\nduty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how to\nget out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence\nof the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in\nbed during the whole evening. She liked Nidderdale better than any\none else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir\nFelix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings\nand emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed\nand shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go\nto bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared\nthat though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an\nEmperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked\nup her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the\ndoor. \"Mamma, where are you going?\" said Marie, also rising. Madame\nMelmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she\nwas being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. \"I must see if I can't\ndo something for her,\" said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord\nNidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it.\n\"That's a shame,\" said Marie.\n\n\"Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you,\" said his\nlordship. \"Why should you grudge me the opportunity?\"\n\nMarie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had\nthought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why\nhad Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return,\nand, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt\nto write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found\na hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside\nthe garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to\nleave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father\nhad told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her\nthat he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with\nher about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it.\nThe repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which\nhad showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had\nspent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so?\nMarie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the\ngambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the\nenterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess\nto her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or\nthe cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than\nonce almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better\nthan Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to\nconsent that the thing should be considered as over between them.\nNo doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost\ndetermined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really\nloved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with\na lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at\na man's head. Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the\ngarden gates open on the Sunday morning.\n\nBut what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why,\nthat the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an\nend by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be\nmarried and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear\nagain, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware\nthat suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was\nstaved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would\nfrighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an\nend to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded\nher, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he\nshould come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance\nthat Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On\nthe Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his\nback to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the\nevident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any\nrate that she would speak up. \"I don't know what you should have to\nsay to me, Lord Nidderdale.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?\"\n\n\"Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often,\nmy lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the\nlady has told him that she liked somebody else better.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me.\"\n\n\"Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given\nyou reason to believe it, at any rate.\"\n\n\"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think.\"\n\n\"That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of\nhim? Accidents will happen, you know.\"\n\n\"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant,\nMiss Melmotte.\"\n\n\"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of\ncourse I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Why did not Sir Felix go?\"\n\n\"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours.\"\n\n\"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let\nme say what I've got to say,--out at once.\"\n\n\"You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference.\"\n\n\"You knew me before you knew him, you know.\"\n\n\"What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many\npeople before I knew you.\"\n\n\"And you were engaged to me.\"\n\n\"You broke it off.\"\n\n\"Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your\nfather and my father broke it off for us.\"\n\n\"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off.\nNobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he\nreally loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you\ndidn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you.\nAnd so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for\nme a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought\nI didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because\nyour father has told you again. And you'd better go away.\"\n\n\"There's a great deal of truth in what you say.\"\n\n\"It's all true, my lord. Every word of it.\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't call me my lord.\"\n\n\"I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never\ncalled you anything else when they pretended that we were to be\nmarried, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was\ntill I looked it out in the book after I had consented.\"\n\n\"There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to\nlove you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now.\"\n\n\"Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good.\"\n\n\"I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer\nto you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to\nLiverpool with you.\"\n\n\"You don't know why he didn't go.\"\n\n\"Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about\nthat.\"\n\n\"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?\" She asked the question with an\naltered tone and an altered face. \"If you really know, you might as\nwell tell me.\"\n\n\"No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell\nyou. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back\nto you?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said, sobbing. \"I do love him;--I do indeed. I\nknow that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is.\nBut he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true.\nI ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't\ncare what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You\noughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here.\nI didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say\nany kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any\nperson--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that\nkind, but it's true.\"\n\n\"Say good-bye to me, Marie.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come\nany more.\"\n\n\"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between\nme and him yet.\" So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he\nthought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme\ndifficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit.\n\"She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be,\" he\nsaid to himself. \"Upon my word, she's awfully jolly.\"\n\nMarie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in\ndismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury\nwas not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his\nbeauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other\ngood quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some\npluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord\nNidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir\nFelix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when\nhe said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason,\nlet it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love.\nLord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a\ncommon-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no\nespecial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing\neyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But\nif he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now,\nshe thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces\nfor him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\nMR. SQUERCUM IS EMPLOYED.\n\n\nWhile these things were being done in Bruton Street and Grosvenor\nSquare horrid rumours were prevailing in the City and spreading from\nthe City westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting this\nMonday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock\nin consequence of the banquet to be given to the Emperor. It is\ndifficult to explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not\nthoroughly understood by those who propagated it. But it is certainly\nthe case that the word forgery was whispered by more than one pair of\nlips.\n\nMany of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was very\nwrong not to show himself that day in the City. What good could he do\npottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room?\nThere were people to manage that kind of thing. In such an affair it\nwas his business to do simply as he was told, and to pay the bill. It\nwas not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend, and had\nto see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. His work\nwas in the City; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis\nas this, he should have been in the City. Men will whisper forgery\nbehind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his\nface.\n\nOf this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was the\nparent. With unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his father,\nDolly had gone to his attorney, Mr. Squercum, immediately after that\nFriday on which Mr. Longestaffe first took his seat at the Railway\nBoard. Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be owned\nthat veneration was not one of them. \"I don't know why Mr. Melmotte\nis to be different from anybody else,\" he had said to his father.\n\"When I buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got\nthe tin, and I suppose it's about the same with him. It's all right,\nno doubt, but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place\ntill the money was paid down.\"\n\n\"Of course it's all right,\" said the father. \"You think you\nunderstand everything, when you really understand nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Of course I'm slow,\" said Dolly. \"I don't comprehend these things.\nBut then Squercum does. When a fellow is stupid himself, he ought to\nhave a sharp fellow to look after his business.\"\n\n\"You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that.\nWhy can't you trust Mr. Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been\nthe family lawyers for a century.\" Dolly made some remark as to the\nold family advisers which was by no means pleasing to the father's\nears, and went his way. The father knew his boy, and knew that his\nboy would go to Squercum. All he could himself do was to press Mr.\nMelmotte for the money with what importunity he could assume. He\nwrote a timid letter to Mr. Melmotte, which had no result; and then,\non the next Friday, again went into the City and there encountered\nperturbation of spirit and sheer loss of time,--as the reader has\nalready learned.\n\nSquercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles. Mr. Slow had\nbeen gathered to his fathers, but of the Bideawhiles there were three\nin the business, a father and two sons, to whom Squercum was a pest\nand a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. It\nwas not only in reference to Mr. Longestaffe's affairs that they\nknew Squercum. The Bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous and\norderly transaction of their business. It had grown to be a rule in\nthe house that anything done quickly must be done badly. They never\nwere in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to\nbe in a hurry for work. Squercum was the very opposite to this. He\nhad established himself, without predecessors and without a partner,\nand we may add without capital, at a little office in Fetter Lane,\nand had there made a character for getting things done after a\nmarvellous and new fashion. And it was said of him that he was fairly\nhonest, though it must be owned that among the Bideawhiles of the\nprofession this was not the character which he bore. He did sharp\nthings no doubt, and had no hesitation in supporting the interests\nof sons against those of their fathers. In more than one case he had\ncomputed for a young heir the exact value of his share in a property\nas compared to that of his father, and had come into hostile contact\nwith many family Bideawhiles. He had been closely watched. There were\nsome who, no doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once\nso clever, and so pestilential. But he had not as yet been crushed,\nand had become quite in vogue with elder sons. Some three years since\nhis name had been mentioned to Dolly by a friend who had for years\nbeen at war with his father, and Squercum had been quite a comfort to\nDolly.\n\nHe was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always\nwore a stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a\ncoloured dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different\nfrom his waistcoat. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He\nwas light haired, with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a\nsquat nose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. He looked as\nunlike the normal Bideawhile of the profession as a man could be; and\nit must be owned, though an attorney, would hardly have been taken\nfor a gentleman from his personal appearance. He was very quick,\nand active in his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself,\nand trusting to his three or four juvenile clerks for little more\nthan scrivener's labour. He seldom or never came to his office on a\nSaturday, and many among his enemies said that he was a Jew. What\nevil will not a rival say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of\nthe hated one? But this report Squercum rather liked, and assisted.\nThey who knew the inner life of the little man declared that he\nkept a horse and hunted down in Essex on Saturday, doing a bit of\ngardening in the summer months;--and they said also that he made up\nfor this by working hard all Sunday. Such was Mr. Squercum,--a sign,\nin his way, that the old things are being changed.\n\nSquercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on\na chair which moved on a pivot. His desk was against the wall, and\nwhen clients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out\nhis dirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclined\nplane, with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude he\nwould listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as little\nas possible. It was by his instructions that Dolly had insisted on\ngetting his share of the purchase money for Pickering into his own\nhands, so that the incumbrance on his own property might be paid\noff. He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment.\n\"Melmotte's at Pickering?\" asked the attorney. Then Dolly informed\nhim how the tradesmen of the great financier had already half knocked\ndown the house. Squercum still listened, and promised to look to it.\nHe did ask what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of the\ntitle-deeds. Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale,\nbut none for the surrender. His father, some time since, had put\nbefore him, for his signature, a letter, prepared in Mr. Bideawhile's\noffice, which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, and\ncertainly had not signed. Squercum again said that he'd look to it,\nand bowed Dolly out of his room. \"They've got him to sign something\nwhen he was tight,\" said Squercum to himself, knowing something of\nthe habits of his client. \"I wonder whether his father did it, or old\nBideawhile, or Melmotte himself?\" Mr. Squercum was inclined to think\nthat Bideawhile would not have done it, that Melmotte could have had\nno opportunity, and that the father must have been the practitioner.\n\"It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either,\" said Mr. Squercum,\nin his soliloquy. He went to work, however, making himself detestably\nodious among the very respectable clerks in Mr. Bideawhile's\noffice,--men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to\nSquercum himself in professional standing.\n\n\n[Illustration: Mr. Squercum in his office.]\n\n\nAnd now there came this rumour which was so far particular in\nits details that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused Mr.\nMelmotte, to his mode of acquiring the Pickering property. The\nnature of the forgery was of course described in various ways,--as\nwas also the signature said to have been forged. But there were\nmany who believed, or almost believed, that something wrong had\nbeen done,--that some great fraud had been committed; and in\nconnection with this it was ascertained,--by some as a matter of\ncertainty,--that the Pickering estate had been already mortgaged\nby Melmotte to its full value at an assurance office. In such a\ntransaction there would be nothing dishonest; but as this place\nhad been bought for the great man's own family use, and not as a\nspeculation, even this report of the mortgage tended to injure his\ncredit. And then, as the day went on, other tidings were told as to\nother properties. Houses in the East-end of London were said to have\nbeen bought and sold, without payment of the purchase money as to the\nbuying, and with receipt of the purchase money as to the selling.\n\nIt was certainly true that Squercum himself had seen the letter in\nMr. Bideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the\nson's sanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that\nletter, prepared in Mr. Bideawhile's office, purported to have\nDolly's signature. Squercum said but little, remembering that his\nclient was not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done\non the preceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled\nas Dolly always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken\nman.\n\nThe letter was said to have been sent to Mr. Bideawhile's office with\nother letters and papers, direct from old Mr. Longestaffe. Such was\nthe statement made at first to Mr. Squercum by the Bideawhile party,\nwho at that moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or\nof the accuracy of their statement. Then Squercum saw his client\nagain, and returned to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the\npositive assurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly, when\nquestioned by Squercum, quite admitted his propensity to be \"tight.\"\nHe had no reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. But he\nhad signed no letter when he was tight. \"Never did such a thing in my\nlife, and nothing could make me,\" said Dolly. \"I'm never tight except\nat the club, and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn\nand quartered if I ever signed it. That's flat.\" Dolly was intent on\ngoing to his father at once, on going to Melmotte at once, on going\nto Bideawhile's at once, and making there \"no end of a row,\"--but\nSquercum stopped him. \"We'll just ferret this thing out quietly,\"\nsaid Squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be high honour\nin discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as Mr. Melmotte. Mr.\nLongestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the\nSaturday after his last interview with Melmotte in the City. He had\nthen called at Bideawhile's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and had\nbeen shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent\nthe letter to Mr. Bideawhile. He had begged his son to sign the\nletter and his son had refused. He did not at that moment distinctly\nremember what he had done with the letter unsigned. He believed he\nhad left it with the other papers; but it was possible that his son\nmight have taken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had\nbeen both angry and unhappy. He didn't think that he could have sent\nthe letter back unsigned,--but he was not sure. He had more than\nonce been in his own study in Bruton Street since Mr. Melmotte had\noccupied the house,--by that gentleman's leave,--having left various\npapers there under his own lock and key. Indeed it had been matter\nof agreement that he should have access to his own study when he let\nthe house. He thought it probable that he would have kept back the\nunsigned letter, and have kept it under lock and key, when he sent\naway the other papers. Then reference was made to Mr. Longestaffe's\nown letter to the lawyer, and it was found that he had not even\nalluded to that which his son had been asked to sign; but that he had\nsaid, in his own usually pompous style, that Mr. Longestaffe, junior,\nwas still prone to create unsubstantial difficulties. Mr. Bideawhile\nwas obliged to confess that there had been a want of caution among\nhis own people. This allusion to the creation of difficulties by\nDolly, accompanied, as it was supposed to have been, by Dolly's\nletter doing away with all difficulties, should have attracted\nnotice. Dolly's letter must have come in a separate envelope; but\nsuch envelope could not be found, and the circumstance was not\nremembered by the clerk. The clerk who had prepared the letter for\nDolly's signature represented himself as having been quite satisfied\nwhen the letter came again beneath his notice with Dolly's well-known\nsignature.\n\nSuch were the facts as far as they were known at Messrs. Slow and\nBideawhile's office,--from whom no slightest rumour emanated; and as\nthey had been in part collected by Squercum, who was probably less\nprudent. The Bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that Dolly had\nsigned the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of\nknowing on any day what he had done on the day before.\n\nSquercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. And it\nmust be owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion was\nqualified to convince. \"Yes,\" he said to Squercum; \"it's easy saying\nthat I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and\nwhen I'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that\nletter.\" And Mr. Squercum believed him.\n\nIt would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the City on\nthis Monday morning. Though the elder Longestaffe had first heard\nof the matter only on the previous Saturday, Mr. Squercum had been\nat work for above a week. Mr. Squercum's little matter alone might\nhardly have attracted the attention which certainly was given on this\nday to Mr. Melmotte's private affairs;--but other facts coming to\nlight assisted Squercum's views. A great many shares of the South\nCentral Pacific and Mexican Railway had been thrown upon the market,\nall of which had passed through the hands of Mr. Cohenlupe;--and Mr.\nCohenlupe in the City had been all to Mr. Melmotte as Lord Alfred had\nbeen at the West End. Then there was the mortgage of this Pickering\nproperty, for which the money certainly had not been paid; and there\nwas the traffic with half a street of houses near the Commercial\nRoad, by which a large sum of money had come into Mr. Melmotte's\nhands. It might, no doubt, all be right. There were many who thought\nthat it would all be right. There were not a few who expressed the\nmost thorough contempt for these rumours. But it was felt to be a\npity that Mr. Melmotte was not in the City.\n\nThis was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had even made up his\nmind that he would not go to the dinner. What one of his brother\naldermen said to him about leaving others in the lurch might be quite\ntrue; but, as his lordship remarked, Melmotte was a commercial man,\nand as these were commercial transactions it behoved the Lord Mayor\nof London to be more careful than other men. He had always had his\ndoubts, and he would not go. Others of the chosen few of the City\nwho had been honoured with commands to meet the Emperor resolved\nupon absenting themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was\nvery much discussed, and there were no less than six declared City\ndefaulters. At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a\nnote to Miles Grendall excusing himself, which was thrust into the\nsecretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived.\n\nBut a reverse worse than this took place;--a defalcation more\ninjurious to the Melmotte interests generally even than that which\nwas caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the City\nMagnates. The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings\nin an exaggerated form. It was whispered about that Melmotte had\nbeen detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property,\nand that he had already been visited by policemen. By some it was\nbelieved that the Great Financier would lie in the hands of the\nPhilistines while the Emperor of China was being fed at his house.\nIn the third edition of the \"Evening Pulpit\" came out a mysterious\nparagraph which nobody could understand but they who had known all\nabout it before. \"A rumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous\nextent have been committed by a gentleman whose name we are\nparticularly unwilling to mention. If it be so it is indeed\nremarkable that they should have come to light at the present moment.\nWe cannot trust ourselves to say more than this.\" No one wishes\nto dine with a swindler. No one likes even to have dined with a\nswindler,--especially to have dined with him at a time when his\nswindling was known or suspected. The Emperor of China no doubt was\ngoing to dine with this man. The motions of Emperors are managed with\nsuch ponderous care that it was held to be impossible now to save\nthe country from what would doubtless be felt to be a disgrace if\nit should hereafter turn out that a forger had been solicited to\nentertain the imperial guest of the country. Nor was the thing as yet\nso far certain as to justify such a charge, were it possible. But\nmany men were unhappy in their minds. How would the story be told\nhereafter if Melmotte should be allowed to play out his game of host\nto the Emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon as the Eastern\nMonarch should have left his house? How would the brother of the Sun\nlike the remembrance of the banquet which he had been instructed\nto honour with his presence? How would it tell in all the foreign\nnewspapers, in New York, in Paris, and Vienna, that this man who\nhad been cast forth from the United States, from France, and from\nAustria had been selected as the great and honourable type of British\nCommerce? There were those in the House who thought that the absolute\nconsummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided, and who were of\nopinion that the dinner should be \"postponed.\" The leader of the\nOpposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister.\n\"It is the merest rumour,\" said the Prime Minister. \"I have inquired,\nand there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can\nbe substantiated.\"\n\n\"They say that the story is believed in the City.\"\n\n\"I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The\nPrince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we\nbe if Mr. Melmotte to-morrow were able to prove the whole to be a\ncalumny, and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of\ninfluencing the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go\non.\"\n\n\"And you will go yourself?\"\n\n\"Most assuredly,\" said the Prime Minister. \"And I hope that you will\nkeep me in countenance.\" His political antagonist declared with\na smile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honourable\nfriend;--but he could not answer for his followers. There was, he\nadmitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the Conservative\nparty of distrust in Melmotte. He considered it probable that among\nhis friends who had been invited there would be some who would be\nunwilling to meet even the Emperor of China on the existing terms.\n\"They should remember,\" said the Prime Minister, \"that they are also\nto meet their own Prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion\nwill be a dishonour to him.\"\n\n\"Just at present I can only answer for myself,\" said the leader of\nthe Opposition.--At that moment even the Prime Minister was much\ndisturbed in his mind; but in such emergencies a Prime Minister can\nonly choose the least of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine\nwith a swindler would be very bad; but to desert him, and to stop the\ncoming of the Emperor and all the Princes on a false rumour, would be\nworse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\nTHE DINNER.\n\n\nIt does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no\ndegree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the\ncruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a\nside, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side\nhe should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should\ntake the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were\nquite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to\nMelmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had\ndetermined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Some\nthere were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte\nhad been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that Mr. Alf\nmight carry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election\nthis might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such\na manoeuvre from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince\nwould surely be marked men. And none of the wives, when they were\nconsulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or\nnot. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This\nwas the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether\nMelmotte was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long\nas they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of\neastern and western royalty. But yet,--what a fiasco would it be,\nif at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for\ncommon forgery! The great thing was to ascertain whether others were\ngoing. If a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent\nhow dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And how\nwould the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept\naway? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince\nshould remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were\npreferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware.\nThere was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the\ntruth from those who were really informed; and questions were asked\nin an uncomfortable and restless manner. \"Is your Grace going?\" said\nLionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage,--having left the House\nand gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints\namong those who were known to have been invited. The Duchess was\nLord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. \"I usually keep\nengagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton,\" said the Duchess. She had\nbeen assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that\neverything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even\nheard of the rumour. But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp\nBeauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as\nsupporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election,--out of the scanty number\nallotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought themselves\nbound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader, and one\nother influential member of the party, were all who at last came as\nthe political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The existing\nministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince. But\nmembers of the Opposition, by their presence, would support the man\nand the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were\nashamed of him.\n\nWhen Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he\nhad heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of\nmoney, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be\nfree from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such\nburdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders\nhave never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the\nblacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely his\nwhole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril\nto which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which\nmight affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed his\nwife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his\nimmediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two\nGrendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of\ngratified glory. Nidderdale down at the House had heard the rumour,\nbut had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours.\nCohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to\nhim. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had\nnot dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could\nsuch a bird as he fly in safety? He had not only heard,--but also\nknew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they\nhad been in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father.\n\"You've heard about it; haven't you?\" whispered Miles. Lord Alfred,\nremembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared\nthat he had heard nothing. \"They're saying all manner of things in\nthe City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not\ncoming.\" Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his\nlife that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle\nthemselves. But he was unhappy.\n\nThe grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people\nall came. The unfortunate Emperor,--we must consider a man to be\nunfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with\nimpassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the\nground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled\nback into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked\nbackwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some\nCourt Master of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards\non this occasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host,\nand the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had\nas yet been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company\nallowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime\nMinister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of\nIndia with whose features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly\nfamiliar, were alone there. The remainder of the company, under the\nsuperintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room\nabove. Everything was going on well, and they who had come and had\nthought of not coming were proud of their wisdom.\n\nBut when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were\nvisible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect\nmade by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten\nor twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of\nthe outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to\npreserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to\nherself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity\nof filling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been\nasked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and\nthe empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week\nsince it had been understood that admission for the evening could not\nbe had for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as\na seat at some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room\nwere but half-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another\nsix of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops\nand the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings\ntill after other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for\nwhom so much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers\nwere absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to\nfill Mr. Alf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had\nreceived timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. The three\nindependent members of the House of Commons for once agreed in their\npolicy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a\nman suspected of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the\nbusiness of the dinner commenced.\n\nMelmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at\nthe big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and\nhis own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his.\npoint. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced\nrepeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were\nabsent. \"How is it that there are so many places empty?\" he said to\nhis faithful Achates.\n\n\"Don't know,\" said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to\nlook round upon the hall.\n\nMelmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the\nquestion in another shape: \"Hasn't there been some mistake about the\nnumbers? There's room for ever so many more.\"\n\n\"Don't know,\" said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and\nrepenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte.\n\n\"What the deuce do you mean?\" whispered Melmotte. \"You've been at it\nfrom the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert,\nyou swore that you couldn't squeeze a place.\"\n\n\"Can't say anything about it,\" said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed\nupon his plate.\n\n\"I'll be d---- if I don't find out,\" said Melmotte. \"There's either\nsome horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see\nquite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?\"\n\n\"Hasn't come, I suppose.\"\n\n\"And where's the Lord Mayor?\" Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now\nsitting with his face turned round upon the hall. \"I know all their\nplaces, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord\nMayor?\"\n\n\"No; I haven't seen him at all.\"\n\n\"But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?\"\n\n\"Don't know anything about it.\" He shook his head but would not, for\neven a moment, look round upon the room.\n\n\"And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?\" Mr. Killegrew and\nSir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important\noffices in the Conservative party. \"There are ever so many people not\nhere. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up,\nAlfred? I must know.\"\n\n\"I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come.\" Lord\nAlfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with\na surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to\nthe feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself.\nAt the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it\nseemed to him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his\nquestions, was drawing special attention to him. \"If you go on making\na row,\" he said, \"I shall go away.\" Melmotte looked at him with all\nhis eyes. \"Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all\nabout it soon enough.\" This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte\npeace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and\nmoved down the hall behind the guests.\n\nIn the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various\ndenominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those\nBanquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was\nno one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English,--the\nimperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into\nordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within\nhis Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his\nneighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all\ncousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly\nunder, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not\nvery much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their\nduties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties\nirksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but\nthat awful Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of\nan Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a\nweary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid,\nsolemn, and silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his\nmanner of eating; nor drinking very much,--for this was not his\nmanner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful\nbosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was\nforced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices\nand this clatter of knives and forks. \"And this,\" he must have said\nto himself, \"is what they call royalty in the West!\" If a prince of\nour own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far\ndistant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and\nslapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so\ngreat.\n\n\"Where's Sir Gregory?\" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending\nover the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner\nof Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man,\nand had a considerable following in the City.\n\n\"Ain't he here?\" said Todd,--knowing very well who had come from the\nCity and who had declined.\n\n\"No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter.\nWhat's the meaning of it?\"\n\nTodd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he\nanswered. \"I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've\nhad a very good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very good\ndinner.\"\n\nThere was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not rid\nhimself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from\nLord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them\ncould tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open\ntheir mouths. And yet it might be so important to him that he should\nknow! \"It's very odd,\" he said, \"that gentlemen should promise to\ncome and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present\nwhom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there\nwould be room. I think it is very odd.\"\n\n\"It is odd,\" said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before\nhim.\n\nMelmotte had lately seen much of Beauchamp Beauclerk, in reference\nto the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the\ngentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many\nvacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the\nConservative gentlemen had been set apart together. There Mr.\nMelmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the\ntruth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let\nthe cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to\nhave been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now. But\nhe was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing\nat every moment. He was now striving to trust to his arrogance and\ndeclaring that nothing should cow him. And then again he was so cowed\nthat he was ready to creep to any one for assistance. Personally,\nMr. Beauclerk had disliked the man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud\nupstarts whom he had known, Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest,\nand the most arrogant. But he had taken the business of Melmotte's\nelection in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte\ntill that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own\nhouse, and was therefore constrained to courtesy. His wife was\nsitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr. Melmotte. \"You\nhave a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte,\" said the lady,\nlooking up at the royal table.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to\nintimate that he has been much gratified.\"--Had the Emperor in truth\nsaid so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial\nword.--\"Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are\nnot here? It looks very odd; does it not?\"\n\n\"Ah; you mean Killegrew.\"\n\n\"Yes; Mr. Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made a\nparticular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner\nat all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a\nGovernment thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own\nparty; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent;--and, by\nGeorge, I have their answers, saying they'd come.\"\n\n\"I suppose some of them are engaged,\" said Mr. Beauclerk.\n\n\"Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and\nthen take another? And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his\nexcuses? No, Mr. Beauclerk, that won't go down.\"\n\n\"I'm here, at any rate,\" said Beauclerk, making the very answer that\nhad occurred to Mr. Todd.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you're here. You're all right. But what is it, Mr.\nBeauclerk? There's something up, and you must have heard.\" And so\nit was clear to Mr. Beauclerk that the man knew nothing about it\nhimself. If there was anything wrong, Melmotte was not aware that\nthe wrong had been discovered. \"Is it anything about the election\nto-morrow?\"\n\n\"One never can tell what is actuating people,\" said Mr. Beauclerk.\n\n\"If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell me.\"\n\n\"I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. You\nand I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the\nresult.\"\n\n\"Well; I suppose it's all right,\" said Melmotte, rising and going\nback to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had his\npolitical friends only been absent, he might have attributed their\nabsence to some political cause which would not have touched him\ndeeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribe\nwas a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, the\nEmperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given by\nsome one, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room\nabout half an hour. According to the programme arranged for the\nevening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for\na cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the\nmultitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there\nlong enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent\nthe evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The\nplan was carried out perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made\nto walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an\narm-chair that had been prepared for him. How one would wish to see\nthe inside of the mind of the Emperor as it worked on that occasion!\n\nMelmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into the\nbanqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till he\nfound Miles Grendall. \"Miles,\" he said, \"tell me what the row is.\"\n\n\"How row?\" asked Miles.\n\n\"There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the\npeople come?\" Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his\nknowledge. \"Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it at\nonce.\" Miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. \"Is it\nabout the election?\"\n\n\"No, it's not that,\" said Miles.\n\n\"Then what is it?\"\n\n\"They got hold of something to-day in the City--about Pickering.\"\n\n\"They did, did they? And what were they saying about Pickering? Come;\nyou might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what\nlies they tell.\"\n\n\"They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think they\nsay.\"\n\n\"Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginning\nwell. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting\nmy invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles;\nthat will do.\" And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own\ndrawing-room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\nMISS LONGESTAFFE'S LOVER.\n\n\nA few days before that period in our story which we have now reached,\nMiss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing-room,\ndiscussing the terms on which the two tickets for Madame Melmotte's\ngrand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram,--the place on\nthe cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmotte had the\nhonour of inviting to meet the Emperor and the Princes, having been\nleft blank; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been\nasked to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram.\nEach lady was disposed to get as much and to give as little as\npossible,--in which desire the ladies carried out the ordinary\npractice of all parties to a bargain. It had of course been settled\nthat Lady Monogram was to have the two tickets,--for herself and\nher husband,--such tickets at that moment standing very high in the\nmarket. In payment for these valuable considerations, Lady Monogram\nwas to undertake to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment,\nto take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one\nparty at her own house during the time, so that it might be seen that\nMiss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the Melmotte's\non whom to depend for her London gaieties. At this moment Miss\nLongestaffe felt herself justified in treating the matter as though\nshe were hardly receiving a fair equivalent. The Melmotte tickets\nwere certainly ruling very high. They had just culminated. They\nfell a little soon afterwards, and at ten P.M. on the night of the\nentertainment were hardly worth anything. At the moment which we have\nnow in hand, there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram had already\nsecured the tickets. They were in her desk. But, as will sometimes\nbe the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she had\nparted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to\nthe stipulated price.\n\n\"As for that, my dear,\" said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the rise in\nMelmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of her\nold manners, \"I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia\nGoldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's\njunior partner.\"\n\n\"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner has,\nin some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says\nthat he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr.\nGoldsheiner anywhere.\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr. Melmotte, of course, entertains all the\nCity people. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr.\nBrehgert to dine here.\" Lady Monogram managed everything herself with\nreference to her own parties; invited all her own guests, and never\ntroubled Sir Damask,--who, again, on his side, had his own set of\nfriends; but she was very clever in the use which she made of her\nhusband. There were some aspirants who really were taught to think\nthat Sir Damask was very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed\nto his own house.\n\n\"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?\" asked Miss Longestaffe, who was\nvery urgent on the occasion.\n\n\"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are\nlittle things which a man and his wife must manage together without\ninterference.\"\n\n\"Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really,\nJulia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert,\nit does sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, that\nthat kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as\nWest-end people.\"\n\n\"A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't\nmake the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort\nof way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my\nneighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who come\nhere will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir\nDamask. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't\nsuppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do,\nGeorgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I\ngo pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr.\nBrehgert if I were to see him.\"\n\n\"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you said\nonce, you're glad enough to go there.\"\n\n\"Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to\nthrow that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher\nround the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair.\nI don't at all think of asking them to my house. But if they were\nsuddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I\nshould be glad to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are\nas well used to it as I am. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the\nbutcher round the corner.\" Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under\nlock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.\n\n\"He is not a bit like a butcher,\" said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up\nin real wrath.\n\n\"I did not say that he was.\"\n\n\"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say.\nIt was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it if\nI said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?\"\n\n\"You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides\nas though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best\nshots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any\nother gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married\nhe used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too\nfree behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser,\nwell, there he is.\"\n\n\"How proud you are of his vices.\"\n\n\"He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with\nme, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say\nMr. Brehgert is good-natured.\"\n\n\"He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large\nfortune.\"\n\n\"And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a\ncomfort.\"\n\n\"If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you\nfind it lonely enough.\"\n\n\"Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are\ntrying to be ill-natured, Georgiana.\"\n\n\"Why did you say that he was a--butcher?\"\n\n\"I said nothing of the kind. I didn't even say that he was like a\nbutcher. What I did say was this,--that I don't feel inclined to risk\nmy own reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. Of\ncourse, I go in for what you call fashion. Some people can dare to\nask anybody they meet in the streets. I can't. I've my own line, and\nI mean to follow it. It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would\nbe harder still if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr. Brehgert to\ncome here on Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can\nask him; but as for having him to dinner, I--won't--do--it.\" So the\nmatter was at last settled. Miss Longestaffe did ask Mr. Brehgert for\nthe Tuesday evening, and the two ladies were again friends.\n\nPerhaps Lady Monogram, when she illustrated her position by an\nallusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that Mr.\nBrehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade\nare supposed to bear. Let us at least hope that she was so. He was a\nfat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with\nhair dyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour.\nThe charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes,\nwhich were, however, set too near together in his face for the\ngeneral delight of Christians. He was stout;--fat all over rather\nthan corpulent,--and had that look of command in his face which has\nbecome common to master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with\nsheep and oxen. But Mr. Brehgert was considered to be a very good man\nof business, and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of\nview, the leading member of the great financial firm of which he was\nthe second partner. Mr. Todd's day was nearly done. He walked about\nconstantly between Lombard Street, the Exchange, and the Bank,\nand talked much to merchants; he had an opinion too of his own on\nparticular cases; but the business had almost got beyond him, and Mr.\nBrehgert was now supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He\nwas a widower, living in a luxurious villa at Fulham with a family,\nnot indeed grown up, as Lady Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but\nwhich would be grown up before long, varying from an eldest son of\neighteen, who had just been placed at a desk in the office, to the\nyoungest girl of twelve, who was at school at Brighton. He was a man\nwho always asked for what he wanted; and having made up his mind that\nhe wanted a second wife, had asked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to fill\nthat situation. He had met her at the Melmottes', had entertained\nher, with Madame Melmotte and Marie, at Beaudesert, as he called\nhis villa, had then proposed in the square, and two days after had\nreceived an assenting answer in Bruton Street.\n\nPoor Miss Longestaffe! Although she had acknowledged the fact to Lady\nMonogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herself\ninto society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage to\ntell her family. The man was absolutely a Jew;--not a Jew that had\nbeen, as to whom there might possibly be a doubt whether he or his\nfather or his grandfather had been the last Jew of the family; but\na Jew that was. So was Goldsheiner a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had\nmarried,--or at any rate had been one a very short time before he ran\naway with that lady. She counted up ever so many instances on her\nfingers of \"decent people\" who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord\nFrederic Framlinghame had married a girl of the Berrenhoffers; and\nMr. Hart had married a Miss Chute. She did not know much of Miss\nChute, but was certain that she was a Christian. Lord Frederic's wife\nand Lady Julia Goldsheiner were seen everywhere. Though she hardly\nknew how to explain the matter even to herself, she was sure that\nthere was at present a general heaving-up of society on this matter,\nand a change in progress which would soon make it a matter of\nindifference whether anybody was Jew or Christian. For herself she\nregarded the matter not at all, except as far as it might be regarded\nby the world in which she wished to live. She was herself above\nall personal prejudices of that kind. Jew, Turk, or infidel was\nnothing to her. She had seen enough of the world to be aware that\nher happiness did not lie in that direction, and could not depend in\nthe least on the religion of her husband. Of course she would go to\nchurch herself. She always went to church. It was the proper thing to\ndo. As to her husband, though she did not suppose that she could ever\nget him to church,--nor perhaps would it be desirable,--she thought\nthat she might induce him to go nowhere, so that she might be able to\npass him off as a Christian. She knew that such was the Christianity\nof young Goldsheiner, of which the Starts were now boasting.\n\nHad she been alone in the world she thought that she could have\nlooked forward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid of\nher father and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned,\nand had so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a\nJew,--and had been so loud in denouncing the iniquity of Christians\nwho allowed such people into their houses! Unfortunately, too,\nGeorgiana in her earlier days had re-echoed all her mother's\nsentiments. And then her father,--if he had ever earned for himself\nthe right to be called a Conservative politician by holding a real\nopinion of his own,--it had been on that matter of admitting the Jews\ninto parliament. When that had been done he was certain that the\nglory of England was sunk for ever. And since that time, whenever\ncreditors were more than ordinarily importunate, when Slow and\nBideawhile could do nothing for him, he would refer to that fatal\nmeasure as though it was the cause of every embarrassment which had\nharassed him. How could she tell parents such as these that she was\nengaged to marry a man who at the present moment went to synagogue on\na Saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination common to\nthe despised people?\n\nThat Mr. Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for\nhair-dye, was in itself distressing:--but this minor distress\nwas swallowed up in the greater. Miss Longestaffe was a girl\npossessing considerable discrimination, and was able to weigh her\nown possessions in just scales. She had begun life with very high\naspirations, believing in her own beauty, in her mother's fashion,\nand her father's fortune. She had now been ten years at the work, and\nwas aware that she had always flown a little too high for her mark at\nthe time. At nineteen and twenty and twenty-one she had thought that\nall the world was before her. With her commanding figure, regular\nlong features, and bright complexion, she had regarded herself as\none of the beauties of the day, and had considered herself entitled\nto demand wealth and a coronet. At twenty-two, twenty-three, and\ntwenty-four any young peer, or peer's eldest son, with a house in\ntown and in the country, might have sufficed. Twenty-five and six\nhad been the years for baronets and squires; and even a leading\nfashionable lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient\nsince that time. But now she was aware that hitherto she had always\nfixed her price a little too high. On three things she was still\ndetermined,--that she would not be poor, that she would not be\nbanished from London, and that she would not be an old maid. \"Mamma,\"\nshe had often said, \"there's one thing certain. I shall never do to\nbe poor.\" Lady Pomona had expressed full concurrence with her child.\n\"And, mamma, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me. Fancy having to\nlive at Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable!\" Lady Pomona\nhad agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hall was a\nvery nice home for her elder daughter. \"And, mamma, I should drive\nyou and papa mad if I were to stay at home always. And what would\nbecome of me when Dolly was master of everything?\" Lady Pomona,\nlooking forward as well as she was able to the time at which she\nshould herself have departed, when her dower and dower-house would\nhave reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that Georgiana should provide\nherself with a home of her own before that time.\n\nAnd how was this to be done? Lovers with all the glories and all\nthe graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls of\nnineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits by girls\nof twenty-nine. Brehgert was rich, would live in London, and would\nbe a husband. People did such odd things now and \"lived them down,\"\nthat she could see no reason why she should not do this and live this\ndown. Courage was the one thing necessary,--that and perseverance.\nShe must teach herself to talk about Brehgert as Lady Monogram did\nof Sir Damask. She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her\nto declare her fate to her old friend,--remembering as she did so\nhow in days long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had scattered\ntheir scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish\nname,--whose grandfather had possibly been a Jew. \"Dear me,\" said\nLady Monogram. \"Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr. Todd is--one of\nus, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Georgiana boldly, \"and Mr. Brehgert is a Jew. His name is\nEzekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew. You can say what you like about\nit.\"\n\n\"I don't say anything about it, my dear.\"\n\n\"And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you\nand I were younger.\"\n\n\"Very much changed, it appears,\" said Lady Monogram. Sir Damask's\nreligion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of his\nmarriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church.\n\nBut to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than\nshe had shown even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that\nspirit had not as yet come to her. On the morning before she left\nthe Melmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The\nMelmottes of course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it.\nMadame Melmotte rather aspired to credit for having had so happy\nan affair arranged under her auspices. It was some set-off against\nMarie's unfortunate escapade. Mr. Brehgert, therefore, had been\nallowed to come and go as he pleased, and on that morning he had\npleased to come. They were sitting alone in some back room, and\nBrehgert was pressing for an early day. \"I don't think we need talk\nof that yet, Mr. Brehgert,\" she said.\n\n\"You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel at\nonce,\" he remarked. Georgiana frowned, and made no soft little\nattempt at the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont to\ndo. \"Mrs. Brehgert\"--he alluded of course to the mother of his\nchildren--\"used to call me Ezzy.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I shall do so some day,\" said Miss Longestaffe, looking at\nher lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able to\nhave the house and the money and the name of the wife without the\ntroubles appertaining. She did not think it possible that she should\never call him Ezzy.\n\n\"And ven shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible.\"\n\n\"In August!\" she almost screamed. It was already July.\n\n\"Vy not, my dear? Ve would have our little holiday in Germany,--at\nVienna. I have business there, and know many friends.\" Then he\npressed her hard to fix some day in the next month. It would be\nexpedient that they should be married from the Melmottes' house, and\nthe Melmottes would leave town some time in August. There was truth\nin this. Unless married from the Melmottes' house, she must go down\nto Caversham for the occasion,--which would be intolerable. No;--she\nmust separate herself altogether from father and mother, and become\none with the Melmottes and the Brehgerts,--till she could live it\ndown and make a position for herself. If the spending of money could\ndo it, it should be done.\n\n\"I must at any rate ask mamma about it,\" said Georgiana. Mr.\nBrehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was satisfied\nwith the answer, and went away promising that he would meet his love\nat the great Melmotte reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how\nshe should declare the matter to her family. Would it not be better\nfor her to say to them at once that there must be a division among\nthem,--an absolute breaking off of all old ties, so that it should be\ntacitly acknowledged that she, Georgiana, had gone out from among\nthe Longestaffes altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes,\nBrehgerts, and Goldsheiners?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\n\nLADY MONOGRAM PREPARES FOR THE PARTY.\n\n\nWhen the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and\nMiss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Melmotte\nwas in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very\nprecious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very\ndear for hers,--especially as the reception of Mr. Brehgert must be\nconsidered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to\ntake Marie Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this\nwas before the elopement. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to\nmeet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents.\nA young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it\nwas known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got\nback an I. O. U. of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough,\nwho was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in\nLondon. Gradually the prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in\nMelmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected\non such occasions. But at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of\nthe party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had then spread\nitself through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming\nhome from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park\nhad heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had\nbeen instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses\nand seated on the coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had\nfloated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.\n\nI doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his\nwife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might\nbe the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made\nno calculation. \"Have you heard what's up, Ju?\" he said, rushing\nhalf-dressed into his wife's room.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Have you heard what's up, Ju?\"]\n\n\n\"What is up?\"\n\n\"Haven't you been out?\"\n\n\"I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that\ngirl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I\nmean to be seen with her as little as I can.\"\n\n\"Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are.\"\n\n\"Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?\"\n\n\"They say Melmotte's been found out.\"\n\n\"Found out!\" exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some\narrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her\nnot going to the reception. \"What do you mean by found out?\"\n\n\"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something\nabout that place he bought of old Longestaffe.\"\n\n\"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day\nlonger if there is anything against them.\"\n\n\"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the\npoor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money.\"\n\n\"Then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a\nreceipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a\nwhole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?\"\n\n\"Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe,\" said Lady Monogram, who had\nthought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.\n\n\"They say he has found it all out. There was always something about\nDolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody\nsays that Melmotte will be in quod before long.\"\n\n\"Not to-night, Damask!\"\n\n\"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would\nwait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes\nhad gone away.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Lupton going?\"\n\n\"He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind\nwhether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite\ncertain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet\nCouncil was to be called to know what to do.\"\n\n\"A Cabinet Council!\"\n\n\"Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to\ndine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol\nbefore dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows.\"\n\nLady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon\nhaving a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was\ntherefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But,\nof course, everything she did say was repeated down-stairs in some\nlanguage that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady\nMonogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating\nto his own domain, finished his operations. \"Damask,\" she said, when\nhe reappeared, \"one thing is certain;--we can't go.\"\n\n\"After you've made such a fuss about it!\"\n\n\"It is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. You know, don't\nyou, she's going to marry one of these people?\"\n\n\"I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of\nMelmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A\nvulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him.\"\n\n\"He's a Jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly.\"\n\n\"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then,\nyou won't go?\"\n\nBut Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go.\nShe had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman\nalways in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose\nthe thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's\nvillainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the\ndaily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had\nfirst heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference\nbetween commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to\nbecome known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to\nthe door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of\nwretched people,--and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and\nthe Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the\nEmperor and the Princes, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses,\nwith the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world\ngenerally, had all been there,--that the world, in short, had ignored\nMelmotte's villainy,--then would her grief be still greater. She sat\ndown to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not\ntalk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the\nMelmottes, although she had transferred herself to the Monograms\nfor a day or two. And a horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind.\nWhat should she do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmotte\nestablishment were suddenly broken up? Of course, Madame Melmotte\nwould refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to gaol.\n\"I suppose you'll go,\" said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.\n\n\"Of course we shall,--in about an hour,\" said Lady Monogram as\nshe left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his\nimprudence.\n\n\"Because, you know--\" and then he called her back. \"If you want me\nI'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club.\"\n\n\"How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night.\"\n\n\"All right;--only it's a bore being here alone.\"\n\nThen Miss Longestaffe asked what \"was up.\" \"Is there any doubt about\nour going to-night?\"\n\n\"I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There\nseems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\"\n\n\"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear,\" said Lady Monogram;\n\"but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a\nvery great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that\nhe may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better\nfinish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear\nthat the Emperor is there.\" Then she descended to her husband, whom\nshe found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. \"Damask,\" she\nsaid, \"you must find out.\"\n\n\"Find out what?\"\n\n\"Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there.\"\n\n\"Send John to ask,\" suggested the husband.\n\n\"He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself\nyou'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall\nand you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were\nyou.\" Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he\ndid not like the job. \"What can be the objection?\" asked his wife.\n\n\"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come\nbefore you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju.\"\n\n\"Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if\nit were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened\nbefore, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I\nmust; and I will.\" Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half\na minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was\na confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated\nthe whole box and dice of that sort of thing! He \"wished to goodness\"\nthat he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair\nwas to be off. But at last he submitted, and allowed his wife to\nleave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was\nsent for and announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had\nfinished his big cigar.\n\nIt was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor\nSquare he could at once see that the party was going on. The house\nwas illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door,\nand half the square was already blocked up with carriages. It was\nnot without delay that he got to the door, and when there he saw the\nroyal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The Emperor and\nthe Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far as Sir Damask\ncould then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. But again\nthere was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before\nhe could reach home. \"It's all right,\" said he to his wife. \"They're\nthere, safe enough.\"\n\n\"You are sure that the Emperor is there.\"\n\n\"As sure as a man can be without having seen him.\"\n\nMiss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resent\nwhat appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. \"I\ndon't understand it at all,\" she said. \"Of course the Emperor is\nthere. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming.\nWhat is the meaning of it, Julia?\"\n\n\"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own\nway. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if\nthe carriage is there we had better start.\" The carriage was there,\nand they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even\nto Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached\nthe door. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming\ndown-stairs. But at last they made their way into the room above,\nand found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been\nthere,--but had taken their departure.\n\nSir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his\nclub.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII.\n\nTHE PARTY.\n\n\nLady Monogram retired from Mr. Melmotte's house in disgust as soon\nas she was able to escape; but we must return to it for a short time.\nWhen the guests were once in the drawing-room the immediate sense\nof failure passed away. The crowd never became so thick as had been\nanticipated. They who were knowing in such matters had declared that\nthe people would not be able to get themselves out of the room till\nthree or four o'clock in the morning, and that the carriages would\nnot get themselves out of the Square till breakfast time. With a view\nto this kind of thing Mr. Melmotte had been told that he must provide\na private means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with a\nconsiderable sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements this\nhad been done. No such gathering as was expected took place; but\nstill the rooms became fairly full, and Mr. Melmotte was able to\nconsole himself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had as\nyet occurred.\n\nThere can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembled\ndid believe that their host had committed some great fraud which\nmight probably bring him under the arm of the law. When such rumours\nare spread abroad, they are always believed. There is an excitement\nand a pleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such a\nmoment is dull and phlegmatic. If the accused one be near enough to\nourselves to make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course\nwe disbelieve. But, if the distance be beyond this, we are almost\nready to think that anything may be true of anybody. In this case\nnobody really loved Melmotte and everybody did believe. It was so\nprobable that such a man should have done something horrible! It was\nonly hoped that the fraud might be great and horrible enough.\n\nMelmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passed\nup-stairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. He behaved\ncertainly very much better than he would have done had he had\nno weight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning any\nconversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he was\naddressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the names\nof those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presence\nindicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence already\nbefore them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, he\nwished that he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal. And he\nfreely forgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been so\nangry at the India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess was\nlacking of those who were expected. He could turn his mind to all\nthis, although he knew how great was his danger. Many things occurred\nto him as he stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. It\nmight be the case that half-a-dozen detectives were already stationed\nin his own hall,--perhaps one or two, well dressed, in the very\npresence of royalty,--ready to arrest him as soon as the guests\nwere gone, watching him now lest he should escape. But he bore the\nburden,--and smiled. He had always lived with the consciousness that\nsuch a burden was on him and might crush him at any time. He had\nknown that he had to run these risks. He had told himself a thousand\ntimes that when the dangers came, dangers alone should never cow\nhim. He had always endeavoured to go as near the wind as he could,\nto avoid the heavy hand of the criminal law of whatever country he\ninhabited. He had studied the criminal laws, so that he might be sure\nin his reckonings; but he had always felt that he might be carried by\ncircumstances into deeper waters than he intended to enter. As the\nsoldier who leads a forlorn hope, or as the diver who goes down for\npearls, or as the searcher for wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knows\nthat as his gains may be great, so are his perils, Melmotte had been\naware that in his life, as it opened itself out to him, he might come\nto terrible destruction. He had not always thought, or even hoped,\nthat he would be as he was now, so exalted as to be allowed to\nentertain the very biggest ones of the earth; but the greatness had\ngrown upon him,--and so had the danger. He could not now be as exact\nas he had been. He was prepared himself to bear all mere ignominy\nwith a tranquil mind,--to disregard any shouts of reprobation which\nmight be uttered, and to console himself when the bad quarter of an\nhour should come with the remembrance that he had garnered up a store\nsufficient for future wants and placed it beyond the reach of his\nenemies. But as his intellect opened up to him new schemes, and as\nhis ambition got the better of his prudence, he gradually fell from\nthe security which he had preconceived, and became aware that he\nmight have to bear worse than ignominy.\n\nPerhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his\nown conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did\nas he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety\nthe part of host to an Emperor. No;--he could not run away. He soon\nmade himself sure of that. He had risen too high to be a successful\nfugitive, even should he succeed in getting off before hands were\nlaid upon him. He must bide his ground, if only that he might not\nat once confess his own guilt by flight; and he would do so with\ncourage. Looking back at the hour or two that had just passed he was\naware that he had allowed himself not only to be frightened in the\ndinner-room,--but also to seem to be frightened. The thing had come\nupon him unawares and he had been untrue to himself. He acknowledged\nthat. He should not have asked those questions of Mr. Todd and Mr.\nBeauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual with\nLord Alfred in discussing those empty seats. But for spilt milk there\nis no remedy. The blow had come upon him too suddenly, and he had\nfaltered. But he would not falter again. Nothing should cow him,--no\ntouch from a policeman, no warrant from a magistrate, no defalcation\nof friends, no scorn in the City, no solitude in the West End. He\nwould go down among the electors to-morrow and would stand his\nground, as though all with him were right. Men should know at any\nrate that he had a heart within his bosom. And he confessed also to\nhimself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. He could see\nit now,--as so many of us do see the faults which we have committed,\nwhich we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we never\nconfess except to our own bosoms. The task which he had imposed on\nhimself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been very\nhard to bear. He should have been good-humoured to these great ones\nwhose society he had gained. He should have bound these people to him\nby a feeling of kindness as well as by his money. He could see it all\nnow. And he could see too that there was no help for spilt milk. I\nthink he took some pride in his own confidence as to his own courage,\nas he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might be\nsuspected. Something might be found out. But the task of unravelling\nit all would not be easy. It is the small vermin and the little birds\nthat are trapped at once. But wolves and vultures can fight hard\nbefore they are caught. With the means which would still be at his\ncommand, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a strong\nfight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certain\nsafety in their very diversity and proportions. Might it not be that\nthe fact that these great ones of the earth had been his guests\nshould speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had the real\nbrother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into the\ndock and then sent out of it like a common felon.\n\nMadame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs\nwith a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a moment\nwhen any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dined\nat the table,--or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that no\nduty had devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours,\nand would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. It\nnever occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were\nfull or empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of\nChina and must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself\nwith an Emperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she had\ngone when she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there\nperformed her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She,\nI think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work,\nand but little understanding of the position in which she had been\nplaced. Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine\ndresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or\nhave enjoyed the company of the Emperor. From the beginning of the\nMelmotte era it had been an understood thing that no one spoke to\nMadame Melmotte.\n\nMarie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at first\nhad been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired\nto have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledged\nto be betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he had\nsaid nothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, but\nthought now that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however,\nin the drawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and\nafterwards retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a\nperson of interest as the young woman who had lately run away under\nsuch strange circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a\ngirl whom she herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all\nher courage for the occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had been\nbrought hither by her mother.\n\nThe tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent before\nthe elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference had\nbeen made to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. Lady\nCarbury herself was anxious that that affair should not be considered\nas having given cause for any personal quarrel between herself\nand Mr. Melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr. Broune.\nMr. Broune was the staff on which she leant at present in all her\ndifficulties. Mr. Broune was going to the dinner. All this of course\ntook place while Melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr.\nBroune saw no reason why Lady Carbury should not take advantage of\nher tickets. These invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor\nsurrounded by the Princes. The young lady's elopement is \"no affair\nof yours,\" Mr. Broune had said. \"I should go, if it were only for the\nsake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicated\nin the matter.\" Lady Carbury did as she was advised, and took her\ndaughter with her. \"Nonsense,\" said the mother, when Hetta objected;\n\"Mr. Broune sees it quite in the right light. This is a grand\ndemonstration in honour of the Emperor, rather than a private\nparty;--and we have done nothing to offend the Melmottes. You know\nyou wish to see the Emperor.\" A few minutes before they started\nfrom Welbeck Street a note came from Mr. Broune, written in pencil\nand sent from Melmotte's house by a Commissioner. \"Don't mind what\nyou hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is all\nright. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries.\"\nLady Carbury, who had not been in the way of hearing the reports,\nunderstood nothing of this; but of course she went. And Hetta went\nwith her.\n\nHetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was\ntalking to Mr. Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity\nof the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to\nher and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial\nto the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of\nthe great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother\nhad failed to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. \"I hope\nyou won't be angry with me for speaking to you.\" Hetta smiled more\ngraciously. She could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her,\nfeeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. \"I\nsuppose you know about your brother,\" said Marie, whispering with her\neyes turned to the ground.\n\n\"I have heard about it,\" said Hetta. \"He never told me himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course,\nMiss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't\nthink I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody\nin the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really\nloves him,--that ought to go before everything?\"\n\nThis was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She\nfelt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away\nwith a man. \"I don't quite know. It is so hard to say,\" she replied.\n\n\"I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted?\nI don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would\nonly be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?\"\nThis also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horrid\nmorning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was now\nfour days since,--he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till\nthis evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury had\nstarted, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would\nnot get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed\nfashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and\ndrink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that\nhe was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to\nshow himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled\nat the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to\nLiverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated.\nHe had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon\nhim from day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he\nhad crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby\nRuggles. \"Do tell me. Where is he?\" pleaded Marie.\n\n\"He has not been very well lately.\"\n\n\"Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what it\nis to love him as I do;--can't you?\"\n\n\"He has been ill. I think he is better now.\"\n\n\"Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something?\nIt is cruel, is it not? Tell me,--you must know,--does he really care\nfor me?\"\n\nHetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by the\ngirl recommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with the\naffection manifested for her own brother, though she could hardly\nunderstand the want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speaking\nof her love to one who was almost a stranger. \"Felix hardly ever\ntalks about himself to me,\" she said.\n\n\"If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it,\" Marie said\nvery gravely. \"If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go\nthrough,--oh,--all the world for him. Nothing that papa could say\nshould stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked to\nany one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person to\ntalk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There's\nno disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get married\nwithout being in love. That's what I think.\"\n\n\"It is bad,\" said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury.\n\n\"But if Felix doesn't care for me!\" continued Marie, sinking her\nvoice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to\nher companion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother\ndid not in the least \"care for\" Marie Melmotte, and that it would be\nvery much for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But\nshe had not that sort of strength which would have enabled her to\ntell it. \"Tell me just what you think,\" said Marie. Hetta was still\nsilent. \"Ah,--I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?\"\n\n\"What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my\nbrother,--and of course I love you for loving him.\" This was almost\nmore than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some\ngracious word.\n\n\"Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you.\nNobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do you\nknow him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not\nlove me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't\nthe way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were\npoor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from\nme?\" Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised\nthat she would. \"Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to\nknow. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I\ndo know it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be\nall the same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will\nbe very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at\nall. But he ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not\nyou think he ought to send me word?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed.\"\n\n\"You tell him, then,\" said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away.\n\nNidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to Miss\nCarbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved\nhim to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he\nhad not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly\nimmoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make\nlove to other men's wives, was to him a matter of every-day life.\nNothing of that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet\nquite old enough to believe in swindling. It had been impossible to\nconvince him that Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea\nthat Mr. Melmotte had forged was as improbable and shocking to him\nas that an officer should run away in battle. Common soldiers, he\nthought, might do that sort of thing. He had almost fallen in love\nwith Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the more\nkindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said\nabout her father. And yet he knew that he must be careful. If \"he\ncame a cropper\" in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper!\n\"How do you like the party?\" he said to Marie.\n\n\"I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?\"\n\n\"Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I ever\nsaw. Prince Frederic,\"--one of the German princes who was staying at\nthe time among his English cousins,--\"Prince Frederic says that he's\nstuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop\nin the Haymarket.\"\n\n\"I've seen him talk.\"\n\n\"He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay.\nI think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that\nI've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put\nanything to eat into his jolly old mouth.\"\n\n\"Of course he did.\"\n\n\"Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other\nday?\"\n\n\"No, my lord,--I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?\"\n\n\"Well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know.\"\n\n\"You don't think about it.\"\n\n\"Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last three\nmonths.\"\n\n\"You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not.\"\n\n\"That's what I mean,\" said Lord Nidderdale.\n\n\"It isn't what I mean, then.\"\n\n\"I'll be shot if I can understand you.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh,\ngoodness;--they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that\nPrince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't\nhe? And who is that in the violet dress;--with all the pearls?\"\n\n\"That's the Princess Dwarza.\"\n\n\"Dear me;--isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house,\nand not being able to speak a word to them? I don't think it's at all\nnice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor.\"\n\nAnd then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte put\nhis wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he\nwould follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some\nlast directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and\nextinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had\nlooked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of\nsearching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those who\nknew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought\nof all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the\nreal venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than\nthis additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily\ngracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that,\nconsidering all things, the party had gone off very well. \"I only\nwish it could have been done a little cheaper,\" he said laughing.\nThen he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which\nwere now utterly deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but\nthe men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the\nchair in which the Emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should\ncome to such a fate as this;--that he, the boy out of the gutter,\nshould entertain at his own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and\nEnglish and German Royalty,--and that he should do so almost with a\nrope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men\nwould at any rate remember him. The grand dinner which he had given\nbefore he was put into prison would live in history. And it would be\nremembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the\ngreat borough of Westminster,--perhaps, even, the elected member. He,\ntoo, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would\nescape Oblivion. \"Non omnis moriar,\" in some language of his own, was\nchanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on\nhis own magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had been\nconsecrated by the use of an Emperor.\n\nNo policemen had come to trouble him yet. No hint that he would\nbe \"wanted\" had been made to him. There was no tangible sign that\nthings were not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly\nas they were before, but for the absence of those guests from the\ndinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Had\nhe not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had\nknown that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by\nsimilar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which\nhad followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which\nhad overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which\nhe had allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking\nsuch as that. When people talked of him they should say that he was\nat least a man.\n\nAs this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one\nof the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. \"Is\nthat you, Miles?\" he said. \"Come in. I'm just going home, and came up\nhere to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone.\nWhat became of your father?\"\n\n\"I suppose he went away.\"\n\n\"I suppose he did,\" said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself from\nthrowing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,--as though\nproclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running away\nof the rat. \"It went off very well, I think.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been\na few words of consultation between him and his father,--only a\nvery few words. \"You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a\nregular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him\nto-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G----, I've had\nabout enough of him.\" But hardly enough of his money,--or it may be\npresumed that Lord Alfred would have \"hooked it\" sooner.\n\n\"Why don't you come in, and not stand there?\" said Melmotte. \"There's\nno Emperor here now for you to be afraid of.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid of nobody,\" said Miles, walking into the middle of the\nroom.\n\n\"Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him?\nWe've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose.\"\n\n\"That's about it,\" said Miles, hardly following the working of his\nmaster's mind.\n\n\"I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done,\nhe gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the\ncommittee-room about ten to-morrow?\"\n\n\"That's the best, I should say.\"\n\n\"You'll be there by that time?\" Miles Grendall assented slowly, and\nwith imperfect assent. \"And tell your father he might as well be\nthere as early as convenient.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Miles as he took his departure.\n\n\"Curs!\" said Melmotte almost aloud. \"They neither of them will be\nthere. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they\nwill do it.\" Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendall\narticle had been worth all the money that he had paid for it.\n\"Curs!\" he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through the\nbanqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat.\nWhat a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk\nwithin him! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit\nhim hardest. \"What cowards they are!\" The men went on with their\nwork, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had\nbeen done by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The\ncare of the house and the alterations had been confided to another\ncontractor, and his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up.\nA confidential clerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who\nknew his ways, was there also to guard the property. \"Good night,\nCroll,\" he said to the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade\nhim good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's\nvoice, trying to catch from it some indication of the mind within.\nDid Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of\nthem? Croll had known him in some perilous circumstances before, and\nhad helped him through them. He paused a moment as though he would\nask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest.\n\"You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?\" Croll said that he would see\neverything safe, and Melmotte passed out into the Square.\n\nHe had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton\nStreet, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright\nstars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds,\nwith all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he\nwould, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he\ncould even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without\npossessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, he\nthought, do better. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear\nhis burdens, whatever they were, to the end. He could reach no place\nso distant but that he would be known and traced.\n\n\n[Illustration: Mr. Melmotte speculates.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII.\n\nMR. MELMOTTE ON THE DAY OF THE ELECTION.\n\n\nNo election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large\nas that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the\nballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known,\nor thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up\npromises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones,\nnow confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds\nhad been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from\nthe reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation\nas to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On\nthe Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting\nfrom morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought\nlittle of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which\nis customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the\nafternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth,\nand Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six\no'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be\nwithdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps\nbecause no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and\nstrategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died\naway; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.\n\nBut Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close\nconsultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their\nCommittee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the\n\"Pulpit\" of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair,\nwhich was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were\nimmediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and\nmentioned no details. Mr. Alf explained that this had been put in by\nthe sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was\nbound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no\nnote of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been\nconnected with the election.\n\nOne old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the\nmost of it. \"It's no more than we've all believed all along,\" said\nthe old gentleman, \"and why are we to let a fellow like that get\nthe seat if we can keep him out?\" He was of opinion that everything\nshould be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as\npublic as possible,--so that there should be no opening for an\nindictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of\ndevices by which this might be effected. But the Committee generally\nwas averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as\nwell as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no\nfraud,--or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of\nfraud,--then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for\npurely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which\nwould pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual\ngentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual\nvoters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of\nthe rumours by Mr. Alf's Committee. In regard to other matters, they\nwho worked under the Committee were busy enough. The dinner to the\nEmperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether\nthey felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to\nParliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining\nall the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said\non placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte,\nbut nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal\nvenom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City. At\ntwelve o'clock at night, when Mr. Alf's committee-room was being\nclosed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general\nopinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr. Alf.\n\nOn the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman\nhad called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that\nan accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his\nbedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor,\nwhich Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte had\nused since he had been in Mr. Longestaffe's house for the work which\nhe did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and\noften late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two\nheavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the\nground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his\nown purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house\nhad been made, Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were close friends.\nTerms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no\ncause for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two\ngentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr.\nLongestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left\nthe house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never\nenter that room. The servants were to regard Mr. Longestaffe quite\nas master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr.\nLongestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of\nthe tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.\n\nMr. Melmotte, on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting\nat his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle\nof letters and another of small documents. From these, with very\nlittle examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps\nfrom each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the\nbits,--holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into\na large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the\nopen window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he\nput bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till\nhe swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own\ndrawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr. Longestaffe's\ntable, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and\nthen, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then\nknelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the\nbolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer,\ndrew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk,\nrang the bell which was close to hand. The servant found him writing\nletters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was\nready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of\nnewspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the\nparagraph alluding to himself in the \"Pulpit,\" and read it without a\nquiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was\nno one to see him now,--but he was acting under a resolve that at no\nmoment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called\nupon for words,--not even when the policemen with their first hints\nof arrest should come upon him,--would he betray himself by the\nworking of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from\nhis heart. He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of\nshrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.\n\nAt ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall\nPlace. He thought that he would face the world better by walking\nthan if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the\ncarriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an\nhour for him if he was not there. He went along Bond Street and\nPiccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross,\nwith the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully\nentertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he\nmet two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned\nhis bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to\nhim. Of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for\nthe rumour. Even after the man had passed on he was careful to show\nno displeasure on his face. He would take it all as it would come\nand still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,--as long as the\npolice would allow him. He probably was not aware how very different\nwas the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the\nIndia Office.\n\nAt the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was\ninformed that everything was going on regularly. The electors\nwere balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the\nunderstrappers,--there never was any excitement. The men looked\nhalf-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they\nought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came.\nThey certainly had not expected to see him there. \"Has Lord Alfred\nbeen here?\" Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his\nback to the empty grate. No,--Lord Alfred had not been there. \"Nor\nMr. Grendall?\" The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would\nhave asked for \"his Secretary,\" and not for Mr. Grendall, but for\nthe rumours. It is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are\navoiding Charybdis. Mr. Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody\nhad been there. \"In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I\nsuppose?\" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior understrapper thought that\nthere was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham\nshould be sent away, and strolled out again on foot.\n\nHe went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The\nplace seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested\nelection, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face\neverybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he\nwas recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward\nand shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing\nwith people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him.\nHe did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph\nin the \"Pulpit\" to which his name had not been attached; but he\nspoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought\nagainst him previously. He wished the electors to understand that\nnothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them\nhere or elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the\nelectors of Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad\nto say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would\nprotect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon\nhim. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to\nregard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as\na matter of course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his\nback to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he\nlooked forward to a triumphant return. But things had been said, and\npublished, which the excitement of an election could not justify,\nand as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he\nmade some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded\nby observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an\nEnglishman and a Londoner.\n\nIt was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had\never been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was\napplauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the \"Breakfast\nTable\" who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to\nthe conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper,\nand made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted\nafterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness,\nthat he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone\nhaving considered that in that way could he best regain a step in\nreputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. It was\nwhile in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent\nGarden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had\ngathered round him.\n\nIt was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He\nwas half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches.\nHis success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he\nfeared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown\nthat he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that\nhe would go boldly into the City,--to his own offices in Abchurch\nLane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be\nexpected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken\namiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would\nface them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch\nLane.\n\nThe clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a\nholiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had\naltogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there,\nand they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. \"Mr. Grendall\nhas not been here?\" he asked. No; Mr. Grendall had not been there;\nbut Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he\nhardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to\nmany of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all.\nMr. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased,\nand knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become\nof the money which had so been raised. But he knew nothing of the\ncircumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that\nMelmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without\npaying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe\nand hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without\ndanger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together;\nand Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think,\nand would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old\nfriend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe\nas he did so.\n\n\"Ve didn't expect you here to-day,\" said the member for Staines.\n\n\"Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminster\nwhile the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the\nletters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?\"\n\n\"Uncommon;--nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away,\nMelmotte?\"\n\n\"Because he's an ass and a cur,\" said Mr. Melmotte with an assumed\nair of indignation. \"Alf and his people had got hold of him. There\nwas ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the\ninvitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to\ncome. I shall be even with him some of these days.\"\n\n\"Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?\"\n\n\"Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?\"\n\n\"There's ever so much been said,\" whispered Cohenlupe.\n\n\"Said;--yes,\" ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. \"You're not such a\nfool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough\nto believe, if you do.\"\n\n\"There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not\nknow,\" said Cohenlupe.\n\n\"Look you here, Cohenlupe,\"--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to\na whisper,--\"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual,\nand say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon\nus.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, there has indeed!\"\n\n\"But any paper with my name to it will come right.\"\n\n\"That's nothing;--nothing at all,\" said Cohenlupe.\n\n\"And there is nothing;--nothing at all! I've bought some property and\nhave paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for\nit. There's no fraud in that.\"\n\n\"No, no,--nothing in that.\"\n\n\"You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the\nbank now.\" Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low\nin spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great\nman to the City.\n\nMr. Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank.\nHe kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and\none for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which\nkept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight\nthrough, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which\nsat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug\nbefore the fire-place just as though nothing had happened,--or as\nnearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of\nhis powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance\nintended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his\nwont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the\nclerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw that it was\nso;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to \"put it\ndown.\"\n\n\"We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens that\nwhen one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to\nbe done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting;\nbut as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at\nCovent Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that\nthey say there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of.\"\n\n\"And the dinner went off pretty well?\" asked the manager.\n\n\"Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than\nanything that has been done for him yet.\" This was a brilliant flash\nof imagination. \"For a friend to dine with me every day, you know,\nI should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself.\nBut then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't\nhave much to say for ourselves;--eh?\" The manager acceded to this\nproposition. \"We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over\nthe way didn't come.\"\n\n\"The Lord Mayor, you mean.\"\n\n\"The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last\nmoment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was\nsomehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on\nwithout him.\" Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there\nthat day. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants.\n\"You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you\nknow.\" He had been in the habit of over-drawing on his private\naccount,--making arrangements with the manager. But now, in the\nmanager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account\nfor a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the\n£250 which he had received from Mr. Broune on account of the money\nwhich Sir Felix had taken from Marie.\n\n\"There don't seem much the matter with him,\" said the manager, when\nMelmotte had left the room.\n\n\"He brazens it out, don't he?\" said the senior clerk. But the feeling\nof the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the\nrumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte\nwould not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV.\n\nTHE ELECTION.\n\n\nMr. Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and\nthere the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as\nthe reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken\nof that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the\ntown on the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time\nfor inquiry as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground\nfor the things that had been said, Mr. Melmotte would no doubt soon\nbe in gaol, or would be--wanted. Many had thought that he would\nescape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed\nwhen they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own\ncommittee-room on the following morning. Others had been told that at\nthe last moment his name would be withdrawn,--and a question arose\nas to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a\ncertain hour on the day before the ballot. An effort was made to\nconvince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would\nhave withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent\nGarden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place with the view\nof ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at\nwithdrawal. They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr.\nAlf's cause. A second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that\nMr. Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said\nof him,--many at least so declared,--not from any true motive, but\nsimply to secure Mr. Alf's return. Tidings of the speech in Covent\nGarden were spread about at the various polling places, and did\ngood service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr. Alf's friends,\nhearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something\nshould be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers,\nto show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having\ninjured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr. Alf might say, he\nmight at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.\n\nAbout two o'clock in the day, Mr. Alf did make a speech,--and a very\ngood speech it was, if correctly reported in the \"Evening Pulpit.\"\nMr. Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers\nimmediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech.\nBut in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his\nintention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to\nParliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to\nrepresent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political\nideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting\nhis own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He\ncontented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was\nnot fit;--and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving\nto the electors that Mr. Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the\nworld, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so.\n\"Mr. Melmotte,\" he said, \"comes before you as a Conservative, and\nhas told us, by the mouths of his friends,--for he has not favoured\nus with many words of his own,--that he is supported by the whole\nConservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it.\nWhere, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard,\ntill we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave\nyesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his\nConservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is\nequally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused\nto grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say that the\nleaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate\nout, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free themselves\nfrom the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such\na man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round\nthe polling booths. Go to Mr. Melmotte's committee-room and inquire\nif those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether\nthey are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in\npublic places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect\nthe leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake\nin this matter, and they know it.\" Then he ended by alluding to the\nrumours of yesterday. \"I scorn,\" said he, \"to say anything against\nthe personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in\na position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion,\nto reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I\nbelieve were originated in the City. They may be false or they may\nbe true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as\nfalse, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long\nbefore these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr. Melmotte was\nnot entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I\nrepeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do\nyou think, should a man be known in this city before that title be\naccorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless,\nindeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with\nhim in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British\nmerchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whose\nbusiness here has connected them with the assurance companies of\nforeign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to\nrepresent Westminster in the British parliament!\" There was much more\nyet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr. Alf made with the\nobject of inducing the electors to vote for himself.\n\nAt two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was\ngoing. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of\nMelmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of\nmoney, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,--partly, no\ndoubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the\ncrime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will\nalmost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted\non their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade\nthemselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because\nthe crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull\ndown the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest\ncalumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one\nof the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the\nmost part, at men of whose characters and services the country was\nproud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not\nthemselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had\nreceived so many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things\nwere thought to be due to them. There had not as yet been time\nfor the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr.\nMelmotte. But there was a commencement of it. It had been asserted\nthat Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor.\nThere was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum\nin weekly wages than Mr. Melmotte.\n\nAbout three o'clock, the editor of the \"Morning Breakfast Table\"\ncalled on Lady Carbury. \"What is it all about?\" she asked, as soon\nas her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain\nanything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet\nfailed in learning any certain news of what was going on.\n\n\"I don't know what to make of it,\" said Mr. Broune. \"There is a story\nabroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document with reference to\na purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories\nas to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an\nelectioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all\nhis own side seem to believe it.\"\n\n\"Do you believe it?\"\n\n\"Ah,--I could answer almost any question sooner than that.\"\n\n\"Then he can't be rich at all.\"\n\n\"Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that\nhe might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of\nimmense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills.\"\n\n\"Will he be returned?\" she asked.\n\n\"From what we hear, we think not. I shall know more about it in an\nhour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an\nopinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is\ndoing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are\nashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to\nhim at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter\nso much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed\non the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as\nthey had put in their voting papers.\"\n\n\"I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought\nback all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry\nher.\"\n\n\"I saw him talking to her last night.\"\n\n\"There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts\nthat he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they\nsay everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The\nMexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £15\npremium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out\nof that.\" But Mr. Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly\ndisplayed in regard to the presumption of Mr. Alf. \"I shouldn't think\nhim such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship\nwhen he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a\nman must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit\na London daily paper at the same time.\"\n\n\"Has it never been done?\"\n\n\"Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the\n'Pulpit.' How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend\nto discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf\nbelieves that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll\ncome to the ground. Where's Felix now?\"\n\n\"Do not ask me,\" said the poor mother.\n\n\"Is he doing anything?\"\n\n\"He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.\"\n\n\"But that wants money.\" She only shook her head. \"You do not give him\nany?\"\n\n\"I have none to give.\"\n\n\"I should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the\ndoor if he will not give it up.\"\n\n\"And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must\nwander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do\nthat, Mr. Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her\nreason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry\nout the sentence.\" Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady\nCarbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and\nshe, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed.\nThe feeling between them was changed.\n\nMelmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his\nwife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always\njoined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an\nunderstood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always,\nunless he explained his absence by some engagement,--so that his\npresence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty.\nNot unfrequently \"Alfred\" and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's\ndinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take\nthe son's place,--but on this day they were both absent. Madame\nMelmotte had not as yet said a word to any one indicating her own\napprehension of any evil. But not a person had called to-day,--the\nday after the great party,--and even she, though she was naturally\ncallous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted.\nShe had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that\nshe now missed their company. She thought that on this day, of all\ndays, when the world was balloting for her husband at Westminster,\nthey would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day.\n\"Is not Mr. Grendall coming?\" she asked, as she took her seat at the\ntable.\n\n\"No, he is not,\" said Melmotte.\n\n\"Nor Lord Alfred?\"\n\n\"Nor Lord Alfred.\" Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the\nday's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face.\nNothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he had\ngone back to his office, and had written letters,--just as if nothing\nhad happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked\nup courage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news\nfrom the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The\nclerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr.\nMelmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be\non his side and the other of course against him, thought that his\naffairs altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had\nnot the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on\nthat subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He\nread Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf\nhad not dared to make new accusations against him. All that about\nHamburgh and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed\nnothing. His whole candidature had been carried in the face of that.\n\"I think we shall do pretty well,\" he said to the clerk. His very\npresence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when\nhe came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him,\nand he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. \"Nor\nLord Alfred,\" he said with scorn. Then he added more. \"The father and\nson are two d---- curs.\" This of course frightened Madame Melmotte,\nand she joined this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude\nall the day.\n\n\"Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?\" she said afterwards, creeping up\nto him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.\n\n\"What do you call wrong?\"\n\n\"I don't know;--but I seem to be afraid of something.\"\n\n\"I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this\ntime.\"\n\n\"Then there is something.\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much.\nYou don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as\nsmoothly as the life of an old maid with £400 a year paid quarterly\nin advance.\"\n\n\"Shall we have to--move again?\" she asked.\n\n\"How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may get\nplenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to\nmarry Lord Nidderdale?\" Madame Melmotte shook her head. \"What a poor\ncreature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such\na reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her\nover. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me.\nYou tell her that I say so.\"\n\n\"Then he may flog me,\" said Marie, when so much of the conversation\nwas repeated to her that evening. \"Papa does not know me if he thinks\nthat I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging.\" No such attempt was\nat any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again\nsee his wife or daughter.\n\nEarly the next day a report was current that Mr. Alf had been\nreturned. The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made\nup;--but that was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers,\nincluding the \"Breakfast Table,\" repeated this report,--but each gave\nit as the general opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known\ntill seven or eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers\ndid not scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr. Alf was\nowing to a sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr.\nMelmotte. The \"Breakfast Table,\" which had supported Mr. Melmotte's\ncandidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result\nthan the other papers. \"We know not how such an opinion forms\nitself,\" the writer said;--\"but it seems to have been formed. As\nnothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no\nopinion of our own upon the matter.\"\n\nMr. Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed\nto have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican\nRailway shares were low, and Mr. Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits\nand unhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be\nthreatened. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would\nprobably recover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of\nthe day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile,\nwhich, of itself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was\ncomfort to be drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did\nnot contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It\nhad come evidently from a hostile party. It had none of the feeling\nwhich had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two\nwell-known Conservative gentlemen, Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr.\nAugustus Melmotte. But there was no allusion in it to forgery; no\nquestion of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught beyond the not\nunnatural desire of Mr. Longestaffe and Mr. Longestaffe's son to be\npaid for the property at Pickering which Mr. Melmotte had purchased.\n\n\"We have to remind you,\" said the letter, in continuation of\nparagraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, \"that\nthe title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority\nto that effect from the Messrs. Longestaffe, father and son, on the\nunderstanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid to us\nby you. We are informed that the property has been since mortgaged\nby you. We do not state this as a fact. But the information, whether\ntrue or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you\nshould at once pay to us the purchase-money,--£80,000,--or else\nreturn to us the title-deeds of the estate.\"\n\nThis letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared\npositively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority\nreceived by them from both the Longestaffes,--father and son. Now\nthe accusation brought against Melmotte, as far as he could as yet\nunderstand it, was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr.\nLongestaffe's letter. Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on\nhis side. As to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about\nthat. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of\nmoney which they could not pay.\n\nAs he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,--for both his\nwife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had\ndined early,--news was brought to him that he had been elected for\nWestminster. He had beaten Mr. Alf by something not much less than a\nthousand votes.\n\nIt was very much to be member for Westminster. So much had at any\nrate been achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling\nand without a friend,--almost without education! Much as he loved\nmoney, and much as he loved the spending of money, and much as he had\nmade and much as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so\ngreat to him as this. Brought into the world in a gutter, without\nfather or mother, with no good thing ever done for him, he was now\na member of the British Parliament, and member for one of the first\ncities in the empire. Ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude\nof the achievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present\nposition, still at this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount\nof elation. Of course he had committed forgery;--of course he had\ncommitted robbery. That, indeed, was nothing, for he had been\ncheating and forging and stealing all his life. Of course he was in\ndanger of almost immediate detection and punishment. He hardly hoped\nthat the evil day would be very much longer protracted, and yet he\nenjoyed his triumph. Whatever they might do, quick as they might\nbe, they could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the House\nof Commons. Then if they sent him to penal servitude for life,\nthey would have to say that they had so treated the member for\nWestminster!\n\nHe drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water.\nIn such troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly\nget sufficient support from wine. He knew that he had better not\ndrink;--that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to\nbe free to him for his own work and his own enjoyment. But if the\nworld were no longer free to him, if he were really coming to penal\nservitude and annihilation,--then why should he not drink while the\ntime lasted? An hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man,\nif the man's imagination were strong enough to make him so regard his\nhour. He therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took\nit he was able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself\nthat, after all, he might even yet escape from his bondages. No;--he\nwould drink no more. This he said to himself as he filled another\nbeaker. He would work instead. He would put his shoulder to the\nwheel, and would yet conquer his enemies. It would not be so easy to\nconvict a member for Westminster,--especially if money were spent\nfreely. Was he not the man who, at his own cost, had entertained the\nEmperor of China? Would not that be remembered in his favour? Would\nnot men be unwilling to punish the man who had received at his own\ntable all the Princes of the land, and the Prime Minister, and all\nthe Ministers? To convict him would be a national disgrace. He fully\nrealised all this as he lifted the glass to his mouth, and puffed out\nthe smoke in large volumes through his lips. But money must be spent!\nYes;--money must be had! Cohenlupe certainly had money. Though he\nsqueezed it out of the coward's veins he would have it. At any rate,\nhe would not despair. There was a fight to be fought yet, and he\nwould fight it to the end. Then he took a deep drink, and slowly,\nwith careful and almost solemn steps, he made his way up to his bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXV.\n\nMISS LONGESTAFFE WRITES HOME.\n\n\nLady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that\nentertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very\nlittle avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himself\naffected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as\nanxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her\nladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and\nrushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end,\nincluding the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had been\nmade to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to\nMelmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no\nPrince! \"They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny\ncats.\" That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two\nladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than\nof the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.\n\n\"What a horrid affair!\" said Lady Monogram. \"Did anybody ever see\nanything so vulgar?\" This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever\nvulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it.\n\n\"I don't know why you were so late,\" said Georgiana.\n\n\"Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we\ngot into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early.\"\n\n\"You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said\nso. I really think it was your own fault.\"\n\n\"My own fault. Yes;--I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault,\nmy dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to\npay for it.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?\"\n\n\"You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the\nhonour of coming to us to-morrow night?\" She could not have declared\nin plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which\nshe had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.\n\n\"If you mean Mr. Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him,\nand I did so.\"\n\n\"Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different\nsets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix\nthings.\" Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her\ntongue.\n\nMiss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she\nshould have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia\nTriplex,--she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and\nLady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first\nLondon circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a\nreply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather\nthan weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken\nto her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the\nnext day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. \"I\nwonder what has made you so ill-natured,\" she said at last. \"You\ndidn't use to be like that.\"\n\n\"It's no good abusing me,\" said Lady Monogram. \"Here we are, and\nI suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to\ntake you anywhere else.\" Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into\nthe house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss\nLongestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half\nundressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her\nmother.\n\nThe letter to her mother must be written. Mr. Brehgert had twice\nproposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr. Longestaffe,\nwho had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the\npresent moment. Of course it was proper that Mr. Brehgert should see\nher father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should\npostpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many\ndoubts. Those few words about \"various sets\" and the \"mixing of\nthings\" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. Mr.\nBrehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of\nwhat she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go\ndown into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether\nof Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to\nbe the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood,\nand had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham\nhad been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young\nmen of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to\nfeel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world.\nHer mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but\nthey were in the right set,--miles removed from the Brehgerts and\nMelmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she\nshould go to the house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one\nletter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the\nletter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid\ntruth,--or to Mr. Brehgert begging that the match should be broken\noff. I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been\nthat so many people had already heard of the match. The Monograms\nknew it, and had of course talked far and wide. The Melmottes knew\nit, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it. It was\nalready so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of\nthe season. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from\nhome would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful\nrumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and\nwith horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true\nthat she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.\n\nAnd there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte\nthis evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the\ndrawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that\nshe was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was\ngoing to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning\nthe proposed duration of her visit, and Mr. Longestaffe, in his\nambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the\nMelmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor\nSquare, although Mr. Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of\nMr. Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up\nbetween her father and Mr. Melmotte. She must return to Caversham.\nThey could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed\nherself to a Jew!\n\nIf she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would\nbe easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face.\nBut then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how\nshould she face her family after such a declaration? She had always\ngiven herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own\ncowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had\ntrampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these\ndays, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow\npaltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her\nway and become bugbears to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's\nhouse? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the\ntable, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for\nthe following morning:--\n\n\n   Hill Street,\n   9th July, 187--.\n\n   MY DEAR MAMMA,\n\n   I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this\n   letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to\n   Mr. Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City,\n   called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell\n   you the worst at once. Mr. Brehgert is a Jew.\n\nThis last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that\nthere should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.\n\n   He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about\n   banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are\n   among the most leading people in the City. He lives at\n   present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know\n   that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have\n   said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be\n   willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He\n   has offered to have a house in London if I like,--and\n   also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place\n   somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at\n   Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more\n   generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a\n   family, and now I think I have told you all.\n\n   I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I\n   hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I\n   am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there\n   is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go\n   to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as\n   Mr. Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a\n   Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr. Melmotte is. It is no\n   good going on with the old thing when everything seems to\n   be upset and at sixes and sevens. If papa has got to be so\n   poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must\n   of course expect to be different from what we were.\n\n   I hope you won't mind having me back the day after\n   to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party\n   here to-night, and Mr. Brehgert is coming. But I can't\n   stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice,\n   and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes. I\n   fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr.\n   Melmotte.\n\n   Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from\n   London,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or\n   have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it\n   isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never\n   will be nice again. I shall tell Mr. Brehgert to go to\n   papa on Wednesday.\n\n   Your affectionate daughter,\n\n   G.\n\n\nWhen the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away\nand have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer\nbe in her way.\n\nAbout one o'clock on that day Mr. Longestaffe called at Lady\nMonogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted up-stairs, and had only\njust met in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at\nfirst, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of\nMr. Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning\nhome on the following day. \"I am sick of the Melmottes,\" she said.\n\n\"And so am I,\" said Mr. Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.\n\n\"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with\nus a little longer,\" said Lady Monogram; \"but we have but the one\nspare bedroom, and another friend is coming.\" Georgiana, who knew\nboth these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't\nthink of such a thing. \"We have a few friends coming to-night, Mr.\nLongestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana.\" Mr.\nLongestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen\nalways do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner.\n\"Mr. Brehgert will be here,\" continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar\nsmile.\n\n\"Mr. who?\" The name was not at first familiar to Mr. Longestaffe.\n\n\"Mr. Brehgert.\" Lady Monogram looked at her friend. \"I hope I'm not\nrevealing any secret.\"\n\n\"I don't understand anything about it,\" said Mr. Longestaffe.\n\"Georgiana, who is Mr. Brehgert?\" He had understood very much. He\nhad been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and\nalso from his daughter's face, that Mr. Brehgert was mentioned as an\naccepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and\nany father would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to\nSir Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house\nas Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr. Longestaffe's\nknowledge.\n\n\"My dear Georgiana,\" she said, \"I supposed your father knew all about\nit.\"\n\n\"I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing.\nWho is Mr. Brehgert, Lady Monogram?\"\n\n\"Mr. Brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of\nhim. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your\nfather.\" And Lady Monogram left the room.\n\nWas there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was\nforced to speak,--though she could not speak as boldly as she had\nwritten. \"Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr. Brehgert was\nto come to you to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa.\"\n\n\"What Mr. Brehgert is he?\"\n\n\"He is a merchant.\"\n\n\"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr. Melmotte;--a man\nold enough to be your father!\" The poor girl's condition now was\ncertainly lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was\nthe very man she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen\nit out with her father. But at the present moment she had been so\ncowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that\nshe did not know how to begin to be bold. She only looked at him as\nthough imploring him to spare her. \"Is the man a Jew?\" demanded Mr.\nLongestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his\nvoice.\n\n\"Yes, papa,\" she said.\n\n\"He is that fat man?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa.\"\n\n\"And nearly as old as I am?\"\n\n\"No, papa,--not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty.\"\n\n\"And a Jew?\" He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in\nthe thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further\nreply. \"If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I\ncertainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I\ncertainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but\nyou shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister.\"\n\n\"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes.\"\n\n\"That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old\nfat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you\nshould think of it! You;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride\nin yourself! Have you written to your mother?\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home\nto-morrow?\"\n\n\"I wrote to say so.\"\n\n\"And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and\nexplain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;--a\nJew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself\nto-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children\nin this way?\" The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with\nDolly that morning. \"You had better leave this house to-day, and come\nto my hotel in Jermyn Street.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa, I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not\nhave you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to\ncome, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not\npermit you to meet Mr. Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A\nJew! An old fat Jew!\" Mr. Longestaffe, putting up both his hands,\nwalked about the room in despair.\n\nShe did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between\nthem would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and\nin the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away.\nShe said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. \"Tell him that I\nwas called away suddenly.\"\n\n\"I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it.\" The poor\ngirl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit\nher now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must\nyield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with\nher father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or\nspoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She\nbelieved that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert on the morning of that\nday;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.\n\nThat was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the\nevening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room,\nMr. Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance.\nLady Monogram received him with a sweet smile. \"Miss Longestaffe,\"\nshe said, \"has left me and gone to her father.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to\nother persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak\nanother word to Mr. Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her\nhusband. He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room,\nleaning against the wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a\nword to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When\nMiss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;--or\nelse she would probably change her acquaintance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVI.\n\n\"SO SHALL BE MY ENMITY.\"\n\n\n\"You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle.\" So Mrs. Hurtle\nhad said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had\ncome to England with the view of marrying. And then when he had said\ngood-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time,\nshe declined that. \"Nay,\" she had said; \"this parting will bear no\nfarewell.\"\n\nHaving left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return\nhome with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that\nletter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she\nintended to write to him,--that letter which she had shown him,\nowning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and\nhad then destroyed,--he might at any rate have consoled himself\nwith thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, her\nconduct had been worse than his. He could have made himself warm and\ncomfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under any\ncircumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wild\ncat such as that. But at the last moment she had shown that she was\nno wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. In\nher softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned\nhome he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed\nher life for her,--or, at least, had created a miserable episode\nin it which could hardly be obliterated. She had said that she was\nall alone, and had given up everything to follow him,--and he had\nbelieved her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She had allowed him\nto go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had done\nher. But was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he might now\nfeel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry\nas to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has\nbeen drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed,--as the day that is\npast?\n\nBut what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had\nresolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry\nher, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now\ndeclared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to\nreturn to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire.\nBut his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that\nthere was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in\nMrs. Pipkin's lodgings.\n\nDuring the next three or four days, while the preparations for the\ndinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to\nthe American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr.\nRamsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in\nwhich he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it;\nadding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing\nhis letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway\ncompany seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a\nletter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and\nexpressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker,\nMontague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to\nhim,--a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to\nhis two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched\nthemselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco.\nWhen he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about\nMelmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day\nof the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden.\nThere he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up.\nSir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five\ndays,--and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of which\nhe had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. \"We think\nthat Carbury has drowned himself,\" said Lord Grasslough, \"and I\nhaven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it.\" Lord Nidderdale\nhad hardly been seen at the club. \"He's taken up the running with the\ngirl,\" said Lord Grasslough. \"What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I\nwas at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into\nthe church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl\nall the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is\nthe best fellow going, but he was always an ass.\" Nor had Miles\nGrendall been seen in the club for three days. \"We've got into a way\nof play the poor fellow doesn't like,\" said Lord Grasslough; \"and\nthen Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine\nthere every day.\" This was said during the election,--on the very day\non which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine\nat the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have\nheard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the\nsecretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in\nhis silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte in\nthe smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.\n\nOn the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed\npurpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta\nalone. \"Mamma has gone to her publisher's,\" she said. \"She is writing\nso much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected,\nMr. Montague?\" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very\nlittle. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. \"I\nsuppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in\nParliament or not?\" Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman\nof his. \"Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?\" Yes;--as far as\nit lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did not\nlike Mr. Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth\nhe repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing\ndeep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that\nalliance. \"Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is--?\"\n\n\"Just a scoundrel;--that's all.\"\n\n\"You heard about Felix?\"\n\n\"Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried\nto run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord\nNidderdale is to marry her now.\"\n\n\"I think not, Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of\nit.\"\n\n\"Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I\ndo think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me.\"\n\n\"You went to the party, then?\"\n\n\"Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when\nI was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry\nLord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it\nwill be if anything happens.\"\n\nBut Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention\nof discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the\nopportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and\nnow he thought that he might be on with the other. \"Hetta,\" he said,\n\"I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix.\"\n\n\"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people,\"\nsaid Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind\nto do.\n\n\"Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself,\nand you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too.\"\n\n\"I do not know why you should do that.\"\n\n\"Hetta, you must know that I love you.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thought\nthat he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs\nthat ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted\nher love after the few words that had been spoken on that night\nwhen Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She\ncould not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember\nthat he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event,\nand that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she\nhad confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had known\nnothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her\nheart! So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of\nlace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing.\nShe had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was\nspeaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.\nShe would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but\nthere are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the\nhands will hardly act mechanically.\n\n\"Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for\none moment so as to let me know.\" Her eyes had turned downwards after\nher work. \"If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once.\"\n\n\"Roger is very dear to me.\"\n\n\"Do you love him as I would have you love me?\"\n\nShe paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her,\nand then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly.\n\"No,\" she said;--\"not like that.\"\n\n\"Can you love me like that?\" He put out both his arms as though to\ntake her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to\nhear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and\nleft it with him when he seized it. \"Is it mine?\" he said.\n\n\"If you want it.\"\n\nThen he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress,\nlooking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with\njoy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success.\n\"Want it!\" he said. \"Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that\nwith real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has\nbeen my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.\"\n\nShe was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the\ntruth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did\nnot care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could\never have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond of\nher. As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not the\nsame thing. \"He is as good as gold,\" she said,--\"ever so much better\nthan you are, Paul,\" stroking his hair with her hand and looking into\nhis eyes.\n\n\"Better than anybody I have ever known,\" said Montague with all his\nenergy.\n\n\"I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought\nto love the best people best; but I don't, Paul.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said he.\n\n\"No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good.\nI do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes\nthought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did\nnot know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have\neverything that he wants.\"\n\n\"Where should I have been?\"\n\n\"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know,\nPaul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so,\nbecause it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is\nnot so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before.\nHe almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an\nunchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he\nnever could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he\nmade me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he\nsays must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but\nI almost think that I ought to have obeyed him.\" Paul Montague of\ncourse had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things\nwhich did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the\nholiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of\ncompromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to\nno external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to\ngive him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no\nright to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival\nwere an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing\nthat he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,--at least\nso Hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him.\nBut what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken\nthe word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to\nPaul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate\nto the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be right\nthat it should be told? \"Do you know I almost feel that he is like a\nfather to me,\" said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.\n\nPaul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would\nhimself write to Roger. \"Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will\never speak to me again.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe that.\"\n\n\"There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand.\nHe has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as\nhe then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love\nyou. How could I have known?\"\n\n\"That would be unreasonable.\"\n\n\"He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always\ngoes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--\"\n\n\"Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this.\"\n\n\"But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that\nI have been untrue to him and ungrateful.\"\n\n\"If you think, Paul--\"\n\n\"Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great\nsorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come\nupon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and\nwrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive\nyou, but he will never forgive me.\" Then they parted, she having\npromised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came\nhome, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.\n\nAnd he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the\nspirit. Here is his letter:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR ROGER,--\n\n   I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred\n   to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has\n   accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were,\n   and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss\n   Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer.\n   Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been\n   untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have\n   proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness\n   which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta\n   to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been\n   the same to you.\n\nThis was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the\nwriter, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that\nit had been implied.\n\n   I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but\n   that you once said, that should such a thing occur there\n   must be a division between us ever after. If I thought\n   that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very\n   unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man\n   loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the\n   chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I\n   had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you\n   answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you\n   can help it.\n\n   Your affectionate friend,\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE.\n\n\nRoger Carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answer\nthe letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the\nterrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk\nand wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath,\nand his eyes were glowing with indignation.\n\n\n   There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses\n   is his own accuser. You would not have written as you\n   have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and\n   ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you\n   went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You\n   have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.\n\n   You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare\n   you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She\n   will never be banished from my heart. She will be there\n   morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to\n   her, so shall be my enmity to you.\n\n   ROGER CARBURY.\n\n\nIt was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in those\nparts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.\n\nHenrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return.\n\"Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here.\"\n\n\"He always comes here when I am away,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were\ngoing to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure of that, Hetta.\"\n\n\"Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think\nyou knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it\nmatter? He has been here, and I have told him--\"\n\n\"You have not accepted him?\"\n\n\"Yes, mamma.\"\n\n\"Without even asking me?\"\n\n\"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I\nnot to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?\"\n\n\"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had\ngot was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs.\nHe is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all\nMelmotte's wickedness.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, do not say that!\"\n\n\"But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try\nto comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad\nas he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation\nlike that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor\nRoger! I feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think\nnothing of that.\"\n\n\"I think very much of my cousin Roger.\"\n\n\"And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been\na home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have\nbeen worse to me even than Felix.\" Then Lady Carbury, in her passion,\nburst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVII.\n\nSIR FELIX PROTECTS HIS SISTER.\n\n\nUp to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably felt but\nlittle of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He\nhad spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army;\nhe had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had\nforfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and\nhad attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly\nruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had\nalways contrived \"to carry on the game.\" He had eaten and drunk, had\ngambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion\nconsidered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept\nup till now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all\nthings. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up\nall his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a\nlittle roll of Mr. Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps\nto a couple of hundred pounds,--and Mr. Melmotte owed him £600. But\nwhere was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually\nhe learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool,--how Marie\nhad gone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's\nmoney had been repaid to Mr. Melmotte by Mr. Broune, and how his\nfailure to make the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was\nashamed to go to his club. He could not go to Melmotte's house.\nHe was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day. He was\nbecoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant\nmarriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond hope,\nnow that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he\nwas no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,--nor was she\nwilling to yield as she had yielded.\n\nOne thing only was clear to him. He must realise his possessions.\nWith this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To\nthe former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time,\nand he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on\nto remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of\nAlbury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of £200;--but\nthat if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply\nto the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this\nletter Mr. Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to\nMr. Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand.\nHe made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger,\nor to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr. Melmotte that\nthere was a sum of £600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque\nmight be sent to him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was\nnot altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir\nFelix had wished. A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the\nhouse in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the\nSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum\nclaimed,--insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted\nwith the scrip. The clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his\nemployer, that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for\nthe purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get\nanything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. This took place on\nthe day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not\nyet known,--and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed.\nSir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time.\nThe clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,--but there\nwere the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took\nthem;--and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps\nbe worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he\nshowed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--the scrip\nhad been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,--or,\nmore probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great\nFinancier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first\ntime that he had been out of the house before dark since his little\naccident.\n\nBut he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement.\nHe had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get\nthrough a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never\nread. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a\nday's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink.\nHe could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse\nhimself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better\nthe amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him.\nTherefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.\n\nPoor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's\nhouse. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would\nbe free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs. Pipkin told\nher that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise\nthan as she, Mrs. Pipkin, chose. \"Am I to be a slave?\" Ruby asked,\nand almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at\nthe hall door. Then Mrs. Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to\nher, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the\nAmerican lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit\nher to be nursemaid to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have\ncared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While\nshe was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and\nasked for her at the door. It happened that Mrs. Pipkin herself had\nopened the door,--and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so\npernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was\nin the house. But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up\nand thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene.\nRuby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for\nher grandfather, or for Mrs. Hurtle, or for John Crumb,--or for any\nperson or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs. Hurtle\nhad asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby?\nSir Felix had said that he \"supposed he might as well some day.\"\n\"There,\" said Ruby, \"there!\"--shouting in triumph as though an offer\nhad been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an\nevent admits. Mrs. Pipkin had been very weak. Instead of calling\nin the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the\nlovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room. I do\nnot know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that\ntime, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been\nspoken to ask for such renewal. \"There must be an end of this,\" said\nMrs. Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix\nhad gone, promising to come again on the following evening. \"You\nmust not come here, Sir Felix,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, \"unless you puts\nit in writing.\" To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he\nwent home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure.\nPerhaps the best thing he could do when he had realised the money for\nthe shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would\nlast for three or four months,--and three or four months ahead was\nalmost an eternity.\n\nThat afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the\ndrawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing\nthe distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen\nHetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard\nwords,--thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother,\nand of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she\ncould become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy\nhue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not\nbut be happy if he really loved her. And she,--as she had told him\nthat she loved him,--would be true to him through everything! In her\npresent mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she\ntook the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte\nhad extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party,\nand told him that she had talked with Marie. \"I promised to give you\na message,\" she said.\n\n\"It's all of no use now,\" said Felix.\n\n\"But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she\nreally loves you.\"\n\n\"But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the\npolicemen in the country are dodging her.\"\n\n\"She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you\nmean to give her up, I think you should tell her.\"\n\n\"How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a\nletter.\"\n\n\"Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?\"\n\n\"Just as you like. I don't care.\"\n\n\"Felix, you are very heartless.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of\nthat, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put\nme up to marry her.\"\n\n\"I never put you up to it.\"\n\n\"Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to\nhear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much\nabout her.\"\n\n\"Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!\"\n\n\"Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very\nmischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other\nmen are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe\nthat there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague.\" Hetta blushed, but\nsaid nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover\nbefore her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few\nyoung men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. \"I suppose you'd be\nsurprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American\nwidow living at Islington.\"\n\n\"Mr. Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe\nit.\"\n\n\"You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true.\nAnd it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long\nin the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel\nat Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as\nmuch as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was\nimpossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in\nhis mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt\nfaint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart\nof hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,--or\nperhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. \"Felix, how\ndare you say things so wicked as that to me?\"\n\n\"What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become\nfond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged\nto marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in\nIslington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and\nshow you the woman. There,\" said he, \"that's where she is;\"--and he\nwrote Mrs. Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.\n\n\"It is not true,\" said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing\nupright. \"I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not\ntreat me in that way.\"\n\n\"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,\" said Felix, jumping up.\n\"If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as\nI stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom\nhe constantly visits at that place in Islington.\"\n\n\"I do not believe it,\" said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her\nlover which was applicable at the moment.\n\n\"By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger\nCarbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough\nagainst me, if he told you.\"\n\n\"Roger Carbury will not say so?\"\n\n\"Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all\nabout it,--and has seen the woman.\"\n\n\"How can you know? Has Roger told you?\"\n\n\"I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master\nPaul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must\nmanage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe\nwhat Roger tells her.\"\n\n\"I do not believe a word of it,\" said Hetta, leaving the room.\nBut when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some\nfoundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger\nCarbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's\nmanner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being\naltogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought\nof all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why\nshould the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love,\nbut asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was\nin daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to\nmake his wife?\n\nNothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to\nherself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son\nwere nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some\nmusic hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles.\nThen Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew,\nagain attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned\nfrom Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs.\nHurtle. Mrs. Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and\nMrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had\nherself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had\ntaken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the\ntwo women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurtle had seen Roger\nCarbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of\nits details,--not quite with all,--had come round to Lady Carbury's\nears. \"What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove\nof Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you.\"\n\n\"How can he know, mamma?\"\n\n\"He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Has he seen her?\"\n\n\"I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I\nwrite to him you will believe what he says?\"\n\n\"Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him.\"\n\n\"But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other\nman is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is\nnot steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And\nhe has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is\ntrue,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman,\nthen I suppose you will be contented.\"\n\n\"Contented, mamma!\"\n\n\"Satisfied that what we tell you is true.\"\n\n\"I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never\nbelieve anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but\nit can't be that.\"\n\nThe story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it\npained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had\nno wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still\nthought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very\nnight before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the\nwhole story. \"If,\" she said, \"you know that there is such a person as\nMrs. Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to\nmake her his wife, of course you will tell me.\" Then she declared her\nown wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury\nto give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague\nwould certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest\nin doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all\nthe circumstances of Montague's life? \"You know,\" she said, \"what\nmy wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr.\nMontague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is\nat the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of\ngross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely\nprotect us,--and also yourself.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVIII.\n\nMISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE.\n\n\nPoor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to\nbe almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had\ncome to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very\nmoment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman\nwhom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her\nhad been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!\nThough he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first\nmeeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had\nthought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and\naffectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had\ntherefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed\nso much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true,\nand had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that\nit would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love.\nAnd now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base,\nand at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no\nexcuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she\nhad heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and\nsore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it.\nShe knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew\nalso that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer\nshould come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did\nnot dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present\nshe could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give\nherself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been\ntold her.\n\nBut there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken\nto give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and\nshe must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told\nin a very few words--\"Everything is over!\" But it had to be told.\n\n\"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me,\" she said to\nher mother at breakfast.\n\n\"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the\nMelmottes?\"\n\n\"I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a\nmessage to take to her,--from Felix.\"\n\n\"A message--from Felix.\"\n\n\"It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over.\nOf course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They\ncould never be married now;--could they, mamma?\"\n\nThe marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable.\nShe, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did\nquite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should\nhe succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte\nshould forgive such offence as had now been committed. \"It is out of\nthe question,\" she said. \"That, like everything else with us, has\nbeen a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no\nobligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much\ndoubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go\nalone, you know,\" Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not\nat all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over\nOxford Street.\n\nSo she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had\nheard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration\nof the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the\nhouse, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she\nhesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was\nwide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths\nand the banners, which three or four days since had been built up\nwith so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And\namidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member\nof Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House.\nNothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a\nshort time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that\nhe had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster.\nAt the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere.\nIt was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this\nmoment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having just\npropitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made\nso soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had\nentailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of\nmoney. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte\nwas there. \"Do you want my daughter?\" said Melmotte coming forward,\nand just touching his hat. \"She is not living here at present.\"\n\n\"Oh,--I remember now,\" said Hetta.\n\n\"May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?\" At the\npresent moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his\ndaughter.\n\n\"I am Miss Carbury,\" said Hetta in a very low voice.\n\n\"Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?\" There\nwas something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully\non Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. \"Oh;--Sir Felix's\nsister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with\nmy daughter?\" The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen\naround her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of\nthe suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very\nsimply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been\nsomething between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had\nfelt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must\nbe all over. \"I wonder whether that is true,\" said Melmotte, looking\nat her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with\nhis hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing\nhow, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was\nsilent. \"Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and\ndouble dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----,\ninfamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a\nwritten assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you\nhere. How am I to know what you are really after?\"\n\n\"I have come because I thought I could do some good,\" she said,\ntrembling with anger and fear. \"I was speaking to your daughter at\nyour party.\"\n\n\"Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is\none to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be\nsuspicious, Miss Carbury.\" Here was one who had spent his life in\nlying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the\natrocity of a man who had lied to him! \"You are not plotting another\njourney to Liverpool;--are you?\" To this Hetta could make no answer.\nThe insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how\nto give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her\nacross to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his\nside. \"May I hear what you say to her?\" he asked.\n\n\"If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It\nis only that there may no longer be any doubt.\"\n\n\"You can say it all before me.\"\n\n\"No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it\nfor me. If you please, I think I will go home now.\"\n\nBut Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a\nsubject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte\nhimself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there\nwas more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed\ninterview. \"Oh, you shall see her,\" he said. \"I don't suppose she's\nsuch a fool as to try that kind of thing again.\" Then the door in\nBruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found\nherself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow\nMelmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she\nthought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie\ncrept into the room. \"Miss Carbury,\" she said, \"this is so good of\nyou,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you\nwould love me. You will; will you not?\" and Marie, sitting down by\nthe stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.\n\n\"Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come.\"\n\n\"Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me.\"\nTo poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. \"We are at\ndaggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as\nthough my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would\nyou?\" Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not\nfail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her\nmother in an affair of the same kind. \"What does he say, dear?\"\n\nHetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those\nwere told, there was nothing more to be said. \"It must all be over,\nMiss Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Is that his message, Miss Carbury?\" Hetta nodded her head. \"Is that\nall?\"\n\n\"What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you\nword. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I\nhave brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of\nhis own;--nothing at all.\"\n\n\"But I have,\" said Marie with eagerness.\n\n\"But your father--\"\n\n\"It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it\nto my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?\" \"I think\nit is impossible.\"\n\n\"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one\nhears of that are really true to their loves never find anything\nimpossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that.\nThat's what I want to know.\" She paused, but Hetta could not answer\nthe question. \"You must know about your brother. Don't you know\nwhether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me.\"\nHetta was still silent. \"Have you nothing to say?\"\n\n\"Miss Melmotte--\" began poor Hetta very slowly.\n\n\"Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don't\neven know what your name is.\"\n\n\"My name is--Hetta.\"\n\n\"Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have\nno brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell\nanybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my\nmamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so.\" All this\nshe whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. \"And papa\nis so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes.\" The new friend, round\nwhom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. \"But I\nnever will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always\nturn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a\nfriend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my\nlover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I am to say,\" ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs.\nWhether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided,\nthere was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was\nmelted with sympathy.\n\n\"I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you,\" said\nMarie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs,\nand made no reply to this. \"I suppose you won't tell me about\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort.\"\n\n\"He will not try again, you think?\"\n\n\"I am sure he will not.\"\n\n\"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why should\nnot we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a\nright to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will\nventure if he will.\"\n\nIt seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted\nto falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr. Melmotte had dared to\nsuppose that she could be capable. \"I cannot listen to it. Indeed I\ncannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--\"\n\n\"Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl\na stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw\naway from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on\nHetta's waist. \"Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask\nme for the truth.\"\n\n\"Yes; I did.\"\n\n\"Men are not, I think, like girls.\"\n\n\"I suppose not,\" said Marie slowly. \"What liars they are, what\nbrutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why\nshould he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me.\nDid he never love me,--once?\"\n\nHetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as\nMarie expected, but she knew that it was so. \"It is better that you\nshould think of him no more.\"\n\n\"Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and\nagreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told\nto think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant\nor a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of\nhim. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds\nthat we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted.\"\n\n\"You should try to forgive him, Marie.\"\n\n\"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell\nhim that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever\nmeet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I\ncould,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell\nyou to say that he did not love me?\"\n\n\"I wish I had not come,\" said Hetta.\n\n\"I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of\ncourse I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he\ndid not love me?\"\n\n\"No;--he did not say that.\"\n\n\"Then how do you know? What did he say?\"\n\n\"That it was all over.\"\n\n\"Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?\"\n\n\"I am sure.\"\n\n\"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted\nliar, and that I trample him under my foot.\" Marie as she said this\nthrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in\ntruth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might\nhear her. \"I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is\nthe worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles\nme and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me,\nand I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the\ntime;--that I can't bear.\" Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed\nher, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.\n\nLater in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone,\nMarie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into\nMadame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. \"You can tell\npapa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases.\" She\nspoke in French and very rapidly.\n\nOn hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted.\n\"Your papa,\" said she, \"will be very glad to hear that you have\nthought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very\ngood young man.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. \"I'll\nmarry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse than\nall the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the\ncrossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that\nhe chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world.\nBut I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale\nrepent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa.\" And then, having thus\nentrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIX.\n\nMELMOTTE IN PARLIAMENT.\n\n\nMelmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that\nday,--good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him\nit should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which\nMarie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing\nto him what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could\nnow be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for\nanger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so\nhurried affairs that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been\nsecured. Now there might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly\nof his girl and the villany of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once\nthe father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he\nmight almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved\nagainst him,--which might come to certain proof in less august\ncircumstances,--matters would hardly be pressed against a Member for\nWestminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of\nAuld Reekie! So many persons would then be concerned! Of course his\nvexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir\nFelix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be\nseen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. But he had\nnot as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord\nNidderdale.\n\nThere was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the\nmanner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put\nforward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of\nfuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had\nbeen the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were\nreturned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be\nmade much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was\nreturned,--but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a\nsudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become\nashamed of their man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the\nHouse? But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already\nspringing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become\nas it were a Conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be\nthe realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and\nold-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master,\nwhose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can\nonly be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still.\nThe new farthing newspaper, \"The Mob,\" was already putting Melmotte\nforward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his\ncommercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs\nis a valid defence for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he\nmay exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged\nby the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty\nto a few negroes. \"The Mob\" thought that a good deal should be\noverlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great\ndesigns should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. I do not know\nthat the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the\ningenious and courageous writer in \"The Mob;\" but in practice it has\ncommanded the assent of many intelligent minds.\n\nMr. Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before\nthat wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase\nof Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the\nunfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter\nfrom Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary\nway in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said\nthat he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of\nPickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things\nshould be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make\nthemselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible\nto take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this\nwould suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake\nMelmotte would raise the money. If it were raised there would be\nno reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly\nLongestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested\ntheir belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various\nexcuses for themselves. It would have been useless for them to\nsummon Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that\nDolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves,--as a\nsuggestion,--and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them with\nDolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,--as they believed,--with\nother papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer?\nBut still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of\nLongestaffe senior. But if the money could be paid, that would set\neverything right. Squercum evidently thought that the money would\nnot be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's\npeople. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the\ntitle-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with\na forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded.\nOn the receipt by Mr. Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt reply Mr.\nSquercum was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money\nat once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr. Squercum replied\nthat on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord\nMayor.\n\nBut in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal\nof the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain\ndegree recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons\ndisliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare\nto be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It\nwas pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his\nmoney,--and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake\nthe credit of a man living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was\nno crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any\nstatement to that effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might\nprobably have been very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly\nfrom either? And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss\nin their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things\nattorneys would do in these days! But they who had expected to see\nMelmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated\ntheir conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived.\n\nHad the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have\nbecome the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to\nMelmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political\nally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been\nwalked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would\nhave been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the\nposition of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton,\nno such popular Conservative offered his services. \"I don't think we\nought to throw him over,\" Mr. Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought,\nquite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was\nvery intimate with Mr. Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was\nnot the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and\neverybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had\nterritorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anything\nthere, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration\nto the world that nobody else would do it. \"It wouldn't hurt you,\nLupton,\" said Mr. Beauclerk. \"Not at all,\" said Lupton; \"but I also,\nlike Nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too\nbashful.\" Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the\nHouse at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but\ncarrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom\nfears,--that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew\nthat he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself\nhe would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here\nagain fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very\nfounder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte\nmight become an apostle and an expounder,--who, as the reader may\nremember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his\ncolleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise\nand sat there almost in solitude,--he happened to be entering the\nHouse, as his late host was claiming from the door-keeper the\nfruition of his privilege. \"You had better let me accompany you,\"\nsaid the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his\nheart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of\nhis party! When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had\nbeen proved to be altogether false. Was not this a guarantee\nsufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?\n\nLord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords\nthat afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been\nin a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He\nwas aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with\nMelmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte\nshould be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should\nnow recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he\ndid not believe the rumours. He was fully determined that the money\nshould be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his\nson were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He\nwas prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a\nlittle longer. \"Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,\"\nsaid the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld\nReekie.\n\n\"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir,\" said the\nson.\n\n\"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't\nalways easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred\nthousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand.\nIf he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's\nmoney, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm\ndone till the parson has said the word.\"\n\n\"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?\"\nsuggested the son.\n\n\"No, I couldn't,\" replied the father with a very determined aspect.\n\n\"I'm awfully hard up.\"\n\n\"So am I.\" Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after\nsitting there ten minutes went away home.\n\nLord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and\nwent to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall\ndining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full\nof news. \"You've heard it, I suppose,\" said Miles in an awful\nwhisper.\n\n\"Heard what?\"\n\n\"I believe he doesn't know!\" said Lord Grasslough. \"By Jove,\nNidderdale, you're in a mess like some others.\"\n\n\"What's up now?\"\n\n\"Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner\nhas bolted!\"\n\n\"Bolted!\" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was\njust going to eat his soup.\n\n\"Bolted,\" repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room\nand became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon\nthe features of all the dining members. \"Bolted by George! He has\nsold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called\n'Flatfleece.'\"\n\n\"I know him,\" said Nidderdale shaking his head.\n\n\"I should think so,\" said Miles ruefully.\n\n\"A bottle of champagne!\" said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter\nin almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this\nnew trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the\nground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered\nto him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of\nchampagne in the house. \"Good G----,\" exclaimed the unfortunate\nnobleman. Miles Grendall shook his head. Grasslough shook his head.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Not a bottle of champagne in the house.\"]\n\n\n\"It's true,\" said another young lord from the table on the other\nside. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy\nvoice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle\nof July.\n\n\"Brandy?\" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of\nbrandy, but they had been already consumed. \"Send out and get some\nbrandy,\" said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so\nreduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of\nhis pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now\ndemanded.\n\nThen Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known.\nHerr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding\nevening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills\nwere due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were\nowing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given,\nnot to Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances\nfor large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of\nthe members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece. Mr. Flatfleece had\nspent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now\nsuggested that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this\nmoment Dolly Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before\nand had heard the story,--but had gone at once to another club for\nhis dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine\nto be had. \"Here's a go,\" said Dolly. \"One thing atop of another!\nThere'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're\ndrinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left.\"\n\n\"Had to send round the corner for it, to the public.\"\n\n\"We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now.\nDoes anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?\"\n\n\"He's down in the House, as big as life,\" said Nidderdale. \"He's all\nright I think.\"\n\n\"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here,\nand he showed me notes of mine for about £1,500! I write such a\nbeastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But,\nby George, a fellow can't eat and drink £1,500 in less than six\nmonths!\"\n\n\"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly,\" said Lord Grasslough.\n\n\"He's paid some of your card money, perhaps,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U.'s while\nthat was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte.\nHow is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I\nobliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow\nto stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?\"\nNidderdale said that he did think so. \"I wish he wouldn't go and\nwrite my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left\nto do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove,\nI know a worse than Vossner.\" With that he turned on his heels and\nwent into the smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence\nat the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry\nMelmotte's daughter.\n\nIn the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House\nof Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative\nbenches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and\nforgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had\npassed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At\nfirst he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the\nmajority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat\nmotionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never\nhitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very\nmuch smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The\nSpeaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it\nseemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people\nin other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a\nsentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very\nquickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to\nsay the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very\ncommon-place affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on\nwhich he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to\nreturn thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and\none gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of\nobserving, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him\nreached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition\nto a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language\nthe ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted\nto use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied.\nMelmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves,\nand very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the\ndebate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of\nexchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars.\nAbout this Melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his\nears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the\ncity,--and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one Mr.\nBrown, who sat just before him on the same side of the House, and who\nwas plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of\nhis own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an\nopportunity for himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging\nhimself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the\nsame time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required\nsome courage certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of\ngetting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction\nto parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now\never teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be\ndone by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy,\nand he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He\nknew nothing of the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them\nthan an ordinary schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less\ntrepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr. Brown was\ntedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though he thought much of his\nproject and had almost told himself that he would do the thing,\nwas still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr. Brown sat down. There did\nnot seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte\nfollowed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been\nmade and repeated, containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental\nerror in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate\nhe desired to show the House that Mr. Brown did not know what he\nwas talking about,--because Mr. Brown had not come to his dinner.\nWhen Mr. Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not\npopular, and they who understood the business of the House were well\naware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three\ncommercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed\nto ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but on a sudden\nthe new member was on his legs.\n\nNow it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there\nthat a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours\nof his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one\nwhose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had\nbeen considered by many of his supporters that his name should be\nwithdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred\nby shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by\nanother party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by\nhis disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not\nonly in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of\ncourteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he\nfirst speaks, was extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement\nin the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent\nhum, almost of approbation.\n\nAs soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that\neverybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal\nof his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to\nhis thinking, had by no means been august while Mr. Brown had been\ntoddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of\ngreat men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be\nat all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning\nbeneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no\ndoubt, prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches\nevery year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of\nputting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought\nat all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might\ndo it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But\nthere was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the\nmace,--and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen\nopposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had\nforgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr.\nBrown.\n\nBut the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether\nquelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the\nface, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make\na dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him.\n\"Mr. Brown is all wrong,\" he said. He had not even taken off his hat\nas he rose. Mr. Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some\none, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested\nthat he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of\ncourse he did not understand. \"Yes, you are,\" said Melmotte, nodding\nhis head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.\n\n\n[Illustration: Melmotte in Parliament.]\n\n\n\"The honourable member,\" said the Speaker, with the most good-natured\nvoice which he could assume, \"is not perhaps as yet aware that\nhe should not call another member by his name. He should speak\nof the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member\nfor Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another\nhonourable member, but the chair.\"\n\n\"You should take your hat off,\" said the good-natured gentleman\nbehind.\n\nIn such a position how should any man understand so many and such\ncomplicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the\ngist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was\nof course made hotter and more confused by doing so. \"What he said\nwas all wrong,\" continued Melmotte; \"and I should have thought a man\nout of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better.\" Then\nthere were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of\nlaughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while\nglaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his\nattack on Mr. Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put\ndown neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of\nfamiliarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words\nwith which to carry on the combat. \"I ought to know something about\nit,\" said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his\nshame under his hat.\n\n\"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does\nunderstand the subject,\" said the leader of the House, \"and we shall\nbe very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon\nignorance of its rules in so young a member.\"\n\nBut Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort,\nand had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say\nthat he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to\nadmit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat\ntill the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out\nwith as stately a demeanour as he could assume.\n\n\"Well, that was plucky!\" said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in\nthe lobby.\n\n\"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he\nwas talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me\ndo it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort\nof a place.\"\n\n\"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?\" said Cohenlupe opening his black\neyes while he looked up into his friend's face.\n\n\"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money\neither,\" said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; \"do you leave Mr.\nLongestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as\nto be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game\nas you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be\nafraid of every word that is spoken.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear; yes;\" said Cohenlupe apologetically. \"You don't suppose\nthat I am afraid of anything.\" But at that moment Mr. Cohenlupe was\nmeditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and\nwas trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an\norder from the British police would have no power to interfere with\nthe comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.\n\nThat evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now\nwilling to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as\nto the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to\nMarie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXX.\n\nSIR FELIX MEDDLES WITH MANY MATTERS.\n\n\nThere is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which\ncalls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the\nsame time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and\nwe may say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men's\nsisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of\neither protection or vengeance,--although the duty of protecting\nand avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight\nduels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is always\ndisagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps,\nand come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury,\neven if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage.\nThere is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,--thrown over,\nperhaps, is the proper term,--after the gentleman has had the fun of\nmaking love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been\nallowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the\nbetter. The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the\nfalse one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months.\nIt is her purpose again to\n\n     --trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore\n   Flame in the forehead of the morning sky.\n\nThough this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before,\nstill the road to success is open. Uno avulso non deficit alter. But\nif all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the\nlate unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will\nbe greatly increased. The brother recognises his duty, and prepares\nfor vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left\nto fight her own little battles alone.\n\n\"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,\" Sir Felix had said very\ngrandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man\nwho was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman.\nHere, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for\nthreats. No money was required and no immediate action,--and Sir\nFelix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at\nvery little present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have\nknown her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him.\nOn the day but one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger\nCarbury,--nor could as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of\nher trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat. Felix had\nforgotten that he had made a threat,--and, indeed, had thought no\nmore of the matter since his interview with his sister.\n\n\"Felix,\" she said, \"you won't mention that to Mr. Montague!\"\n\n\"Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs. Hurtle? Indeed I shall.\nA man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by\nheavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed.\"\n\n\"I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more.\"\n\n\"If it is so! I tell you I know it.\"\n\n\"Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has.\"\n\n\"What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do with\nour affairs?\"\n\n\"Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both\nsay that he is to marry that woman,--I will not see Mr. Montague\nagain. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is\nbetter to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done?\"\n\n\"Leave that to me,\" said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much\nfraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself driven\nto Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to\nremind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task.\nHe too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of\nthe past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of\nfashion. \"Montague,\" he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour\nthat his late sorrows had left to him, \"I believe I am right in\nsaying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs.\nHurtle.\"\n\n\"Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life.\nWhat business have you with Mrs. Hurtle?\"\n\n\"When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of\nbusiness,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"Well;--yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg\nyour pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs.\nHurtle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name;--but as you\nhave heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you\nknow where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please.\nOn the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your\nsister. I trust that will be enough for you.\"\n\n\"You were engaged to Mrs. Hurtle?\"\n\n\"My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details\nof my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in\nanswer to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs.\nHurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether\nI am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that\nI am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond\nthat, I do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't\ngo,--at any rate, at present.\" Sir Felix still blustered, and made\nwhat capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took\nno steps towards positive revenge. \"Of course, Carbury,\" said the\nother, \"I wish to regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you,\nit is only because you are rough to me.\"\n\nSir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed\nto haunt,--for the first time since his misadventure,--and, plucking\nup his courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He\nwould have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would\nas yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old\nhabits. But when he arrived there, the club was shut up. \"What the\ndeuce is Vossner about?\" said he, pulling out his watch. It was\nnearly five o'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door,\nfeeling that this was an occasion for courage. One of the servants,\nin what we may call private clothes, after some delay, drew back the\nbolts, and told him the astounding news;--The club was shut up! \"Do\nyou mean to say I can't come in?\" said Sir Felix. The man certainly\ndid mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot,\nand stood in that narrow aperture. Mr. Vossner had gone away. There\nhad been a meeting of the Committee, and the club was shut up.\nWhatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined\nto communicate to Sir Felix Carbury.\n\n\"By George!\" The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's\nbosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine\nat his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant\namong his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and\nVossner had gone away! What business had the club to be shut up? What\nright had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in\nadvance? Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more\nindignant is he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that\nhe could recover damages from the whole Committee.\n\nHe went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise\nof marriage in Mrs. Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come\nagain on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thought\nnothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in\nhis position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby\nherself, who was of course delighted to see him. \"Who do you think\nis in town?\" she said. \"John Crumb; but though he came here ever so\nsmart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to\ngo away.\" Sir Felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable\nsensation creep over him. \"I don't know I'm sure what he should come\nafter me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face\nthat I never want to see him again.\"\n\n\"He's not of much account,\" said the baronet.\n\n\"He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him,\"\ncontinued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should\nnot be spoken of as being altogether of no account. \"And he has\neverything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And\nthey do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him,\"\nsaid Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her\naristocratic lover's shoulder.\n\nThis took place in the back parlour, before Mrs. Pipkin had ascended\nfrom the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with\nwretched references to the cold outer world. \"Well, now, Sir Felix,\"\nshe began, \"if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my\nniece.\"\n\n\"And what if they're round, Mrs. Pipkin?\" said the gallant, careless,\nsparkling Lothario.\n\n\"Well, or round either, so long as they're honest.\"\n\n\"Ruby and I are both honest;--ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out\nto dinner, Mrs. Pipkin. She shall be back before late;--before ten;\nshe shall indeed.\" Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards\nhis shoulder. \"Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and\nwe'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you.\"\n\nEver so many things to tell her! They must be to fix a day for the\nmarriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle\nwhat dress she should wear,--and perhaps to give her the money to go\nand buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! She looked up into Mrs.\nPipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely on such an occasion as this\nan aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a\nslave. \"Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?\" demanded\nMrs. Pipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs. Hurtle had given it as her\ndecided opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby\nRuggles unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the\nformality of a written contract.\n\n\"Writing be bothered,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But\nwhen a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer\nnor words. Ruby don't go no where to dine unless you puts it into\nwriting.\"\n\n\"Aunt Pipkin!\" exclaimed the wretched Ruby. \"What do you think I'm\ngoing to do with her?\" asked Sir Felix.\n\n\"If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be\nas you don't, just say so, and walk away,--free.\"\n\n\"I shall go,\" said Ruby. \"I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner\nfor any one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be\ndown in a minute.\" The girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs,\nand began to change her dress without giving herself a moment for\nthought.\n\n\"She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, in\nher most solemn tones. \"She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was\nmy poor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between\nus, and won't be no disgrace. But I'd be loth to see her on the\nstreets.\"\n\n\"Then why won't you let me bring her back again?\"\n\n\"'Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry\nher.\" To this Sir Felix said nothing. \"You're not thinking of that.\nIt's just a bit of sport,--and then there she is, an old shoe to\nbe chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've\nseen scores of 'em, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a\nworkus', or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to the likes o'\nyou.\"\n\n\"I haven't done her any harm,\" said Sir Felix, almost frightened.\n\n\"Then go away, and don't do her any. That's Mrs. Hurtle's door open.\nYou go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better nor me.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen\nthe world.\" As she spoke, Mrs. Hurtle came downstairs, and an\nintroduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between her and\nSir Felix. Mrs. Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was\nquite as certain as Mrs. Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby\nRuggles. In a few minutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs. Hurtle\nin her own room. He had been anxious to see the woman since he had\nheard of her engagement with Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since\nhe had also heard of Paul's engagement with his sister. It was not an\nhour since Paul himself had referred him to her for corroboration of\nhis own statement.\n\n\"Sir Felix Carbury,\" she said, \"I am afraid you are doing that poor\ngirl no good, and are intending to do her none.\" It did occur to him\nvery strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs. Hurtle's, and that\nhe, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an\nunjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was\nMrs. Hurtle? \"Would it not be better that you should leave her to\nbecome the wife of a man who is really fond of her?\"\n\nHe could already see something in Mrs. Hurtle's eye which prevented\nhis at once bursting into wrath;--but who was Mrs. Hurtle, that she\nshould interfere with him? \"Upon my word, ma'am,\" he said, \"I'm very\nmuch obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour\nof your--your--\"\n\n\"Interference you mean.\"\n\n\"I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it.\"\n\n\"I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made,\" said Mrs.\nHurtle with energy. \"We're all apt to wait a little too long, because\nwe're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You\nmust go and leave her, Sir Felix.\"\n\n\"I suppose she may do as she pleases about that.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to make her your wife?\" asked Mrs. Hurtle sternly.\n\n\"Does Mr. Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?\" rejoined Sir\nFelix with an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly\nhard enough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised\nthat he would have heard aught of her own concerns. She only barely\nconnected him with that Roger Carbury who, she knew, was Paul's great\nfriend, and she had as yet never heard that Hetta Carbury was the\ngirl whom Paul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young\nscamp should know all her story?\n\nShe thought awhile,--she had to think for a moment,--before she could\nanswer him. \"I do not see,\" she said, with a faint attempt at a\nsmile, \"that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any\nrate, am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me,\nI am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows\nherself to be taken about the town by you at night?\" She had desired\nin what she said to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it\nmatter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was, or\nthat she was not, about to be married?\n\n\"If you'll answer me, I'll answer you,\" said Sir Felix. \"Does Mr.\nMontague mean to make you his wife?\"\n\n\"It does not concern you to know,\" said she, flashing upon him. \"The\nquestion is insolent.\"\n\n\"It does concern me,--a great deal more than anything about Ruby can\nconcern you. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you.\"\n\n\"Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head.\"\n\n\"I know all about that,\" said the baronet.\n\n\"And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know\nwhere to find you,\" added Mrs. Hurtle.\n\nTo such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix\nleft the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And\nwere there not policemen in London? And what additional harm would\nbe done to John Crumb, or what increase of anger engendered in that\ntrue lover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had\ndanced with him so often at the Music Hall that John Crumb could\nhardly be made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him\non this evening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all\narrayed. \"You don't come in here again to-night,\" said Mrs. Pipkin,\nthumping the little table which stood in the passage, \"if you goes\nout of that there door with that there young man.\"\n\n\"Then I shall,\" said Ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm.\n\n\"Baggage! Slut!\" said Mrs. Pipkin; \"after all I've done for you, just\nas one as though you were my own flesh and blood.\"\n\n\"I've worked for it, I suppose;--haven't I?\" rejoined Ruby.\n\n\"You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here no\nmore. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 've\nsaved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you,\"--and she looked at\nSir Felix,--\"only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the\nlady upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no\nmore after poor girls.\" I do not think that she need have feared\nany remonstrance from Mrs. Hurtle, even had she put her threat into\nexecution.\n\nSir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs. Pipkin and her\nlodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby had\nbeen triumphant, and was happy. She did not stop to consider whether\nher aunt would or would not open her door when she should return\ntired, and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm, in her\nbest clothes, and going to have a dinner given to her. And her\nlover had told her that he had ever so many things,--ever so many\nthings to say to her! But she would ask no impertinent questions\nin the first hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with\nhim up to Pentonville;--so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure,\nhalf public-house and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order\nthe good things, which in his company would be so nice! Who cannot\nunderstand that even an urban Rosherville must be an Elysium to those\nwho have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom of a small\nLondon underground kitchen? There we will leave Ruby in her bliss.\n\nAt about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs. Pipkin's, and\nwas told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury. He hit his\nleg a blow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. \"He'll have it\nhot some day,\" said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for\nRuby till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took his\ndeparture.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXI.\n\nJOHN CRUMB FALLS INTO TROUBLE.\n\n\nIt was on a Friday evening, an inauspicious Friday, that poor Ruby\nRuggles had insisted on leaving the security of her Aunt Pipkin's\nhouse with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of the\npositive assurance made to her by Mrs. Pipkin that if she went forth\nin such company she should not be allowed to return. \"Of course\nyou must let her in,\" Mrs. Hurtle had said soon after the girl's\ndeparture. Whereupon Mrs. Pipkin had cried. She knew her own softness\ntoo well to suppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl\nout in the streets all night; but yet it was hard upon her, very\nhard, that she should be so troubled. \"We usen't to have our ways\nlike that when I was young,\" she said, sobbing. What was to be the\nend of it? Was she to be forced by circumstances to keep the girl\nalways there, let the girl's conduct be what it might? Nevertheless\nshe acknowledged that Ruby must be let in when she came back. Then,\nabout nine o'clock, John Crumb came; and the latter part of the\nevening was more melancholy even than the first. It was impossible to\nconceal the truth from John Crumb. Mrs. Hurtle saw the poor man and\ntold the story in Mrs. Pipkin's presence.\n\n\"She's headstrong, Mr. Crumb,\" said Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"She is that, ma'am. And it was along wi' the baro-nite she went?\"\n\n\"It was so, Mr. Crumb.\"\n\n\"Baro-nite! Well;--perhaps I shall catch him some of these\ndays;--went to dinner wi' him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner\nhere?\"\n\nThen Mrs. Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence. Ruby Ruggles\nhad had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in London,--a\nbullock's heart and potatoes,--just as much as ever she had pleased\nto eat of it. Mrs. Pipkin could tell Mr. Crumb that there was \"no\nstarvation nor yet no stint in her house.\" John Crumb immediately\nproduced a very thick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak, which\nhe had brought up with him to London from Bungay, as a present to\nthe woman who had been good to his Ruby. He assured her that he did\nnot doubt that her victuals were good and plentiful, and went on to\nsay that he had made bold to bring her a trifle out of respect. It\nwas some little time before Mrs. Pipkin would allow herself to be\nappeased;--but at last she permitted the garment to be placed on her\nshoulders. But it was done after a melancholy fashion. There was no\nsmiling consciousness of the bestowal of joy on the countenance of\nthe donor as he gave it, no exuberance of thanks from the recipient\nas she received it. Mrs. Hurtle, standing by, declared it to be\nperfect;--but the occasion was one which admitted of no delight.\n\"It's very good of you, Mr. Crumb, to think of an old woman like\nme,--particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young\n'un.\"\n\n\"It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs. Pipkin, or the d'sease in the\n'tatoes;--it has to be put up with, I suppose. Is she very partial,\nma'am, to that young baro-nite?\" This question was asked of Mrs.\nHurtle.\n\n\"Just a fancy for the time, Mr. Crumb,\" said the lady.\n\n\"They never thinks as how their fancies may well-nigh half kill a\nman!\" Then he was silent for awhile, sitting back in his chair, not\nmoving a limb, with his eyes fastened on Mrs. Pipkin's ceiling.\nMrs. Hurtle had some work in her hand, and sat watching him. The\nman was to her an extraordinary being,--so constant, so slow, so\nunexpressive, so unlike her own countrymen,--willing to endure so\nmuch, and at the same time so warm in his affections! \"Sir Felix\nCarbury!\" he said. \"I'll Sir Felix him some of these days. If it was\nonly dinner, wouldn't she be back afore this, ma'am?\"\n\n\"I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement,\" said Mrs.\nHurtle.\n\n\"Like enough,\" said John Crumb in a low voice.\n\n\"She's that mad after dancing as never was,\" said Mrs. Pipkin.\n\n\"And where is it as 'em dances?\" asked Crumb, getting up from his\nchair, and stretching himself. It was evident to both the ladies that\nhe was beginning to think that he would follow Ruby to the music\nhall. Neither of them answered him, however, and then he sat down\nagain. \"Does 'em dance all night at them places, Mrs. Pipkin?\"\n\n\"They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do,\" said Mrs.\nPipkin. John Crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down heavily\non the palm of his other hand, and then again sat silent for awhile.\n\n\"I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing,\" he said. \"I'd a had\ndancing for her down at Bungay,--just as ready as anything. D'ye\nthink, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?\" This\nwas another appeal to Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"I suppose they go together,\" said the lady.\n\nThen there was another long pause, at the end of which poor John\nCrumb burst out with some violence. \"Domn him! Domn him! What 'ad\nI ever dun to him? Nothing! Did I ever interfere wi' him? Never! But\nI wull. I wull. I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Bury!\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Crumb, don't talk like that,\" said Mrs. Pipkin.\n\n\"Mr. Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently,\"\nsaid Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"She's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's treating\nyou,\" said Mrs. Pipkin.\n\n\"No, ma'am;--she ain't nasty,\" said the lover. \"But she's\ncrou'll--horrid crou'll. It's no more use my going down about meal\nand pollard, nor business, and she up here with that baro-nite,--no,\nno more nor nothin'! When I handles it I don't know whether its\nmiddlings nor nothin' else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would\nyou take it on yourself to say as I was wrong?\"\n\n\"I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him,\" said\nMrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"I could pretty well eat him,--that's what I could. Half past eleven;\nis it? She must come some time, mustn't she?\" Mrs. Pipkin, who did\nnot want to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give\nno assurance on that head. If Ruby did come, she should, on that\nnight, be admitted. But Mrs. Pipkin thought that it would be better\nto get up and let her in than to sit up for her. Poor Mr. Crumb did\nnot at once take the hint, and remained there for another half-hour,\nsaying little, but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come. But\nwhen the clock struck twelve he was told that he must go. Then he\nslowly collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house.\n\n\"That young man is a good fellow,\" said Mrs. Hurtle as soon as the\ndoor was closed.\n\n\"A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles,\" said Mrs. Pipkin. \"And he can\nmaintain a wife. Mr. Carbury says as he's as well to do as any\ntradesman down in them parts.\"\n\nMrs. Hurtle disliked the name of Mr. Carbury, and took this last\nstatement as no evidence in John Crumb's favour. \"I don't know that\nI think better of the man for having Mr. Carbury's friendship,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Mr. Carbury ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"I don't think much of any of the Carburys, Mrs. Pipkin. It seems\nto me that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing.\nNobody seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere\nwith nobody else.\" This was all Greek to poor Mrs. Pipkin. \"I suppose\nwe may as well go to bed now. When that girl comes and knocks, of\ncourse we must let her in. If I hear her, I'll go down and open the\ndoor for her.\"\n\nMrs. Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition\nof her household. She would remain up herself to answer the door at\nthe first sound, so that Mrs. Hurtle should not be disturbed. She\nwould do her best to prevent any further annoyance. She trusted Mrs.\nHurtle would see that she was endeavouring to do her duty by the\nnaughty wicked girl. And then she came round to the point of her\ndiscourse. She hoped that Mrs. Hurtle would not be induced to quit\nthe rooms by these disagreeable occurrences. \"I don't mind saying it\nnow, Mrs. Hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't\nnothing to depend on,--only lodgers, and them as is any good is so\nhard to get!\" The poor woman hardly understood Mrs. Hurtle, who, as\na lodger, was certainly peculiar. She cared nothing for disturbances,\nand rather liked than otherwise the task of endeavouring to assist\nin the salvation of Ruby. Mrs. Hurtle begged that Mrs. Pipkin would\ngo to bed. She would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking.\nAnother half-hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the\nparlour after Crumb's departure. Then Mrs. Hurtle took her candle and\nhad ascended the stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud\ndouble knock was heard. She immediately joined Mrs. Pipkin in the\npassage. The door was opened, and there stood Ruby Ruggles, John\nCrumb, and two policemen! Ruby rushed in, and casting herself on\nto one of the stairs began to throw her hands about, and to howl\npiteously. \"Laws a mercy; what is it?\" asked Mrs. Pipkin.\n\n\"He's been and murdered him!\" screamed Ruby. \"He has! He's been and\nmurdered him!\"\n\n\"This young woman is living here;--is she?\" asked one of the\npolicemen.\n\n\"She is living here,\" said Mrs. Hurtle. But now we must go back to\nthe adventures of John Crumb after he had left the house.\n\nHe had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern Counties\nRailway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when business\nbrought him up to London, and thither he proposed to himself to\nreturn. At one time there had come upon him an idea that he would\nendeavour to seek Ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of\nthe metropolis; and he had asked a question with that view. But no\nanswer had been given which seemed to aid him in his project, and his\npurpose had been abandoned as being too complex and requiring more\nintelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. So he had\nturned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to know\nthat it would take him to the Islington Angel,--where various roads\nmeet, and whence he would know his way eastwards. He had just passed\nthe Angel, and the end of Goswell Road, and was standing with his\nmouth open, looking about, trying to make certain of himself that he\nwould not go wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he\nsaw, and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know\nhis business. Then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and knew\nthat it was Ruby's voice. The sound was very near him, but in the\nglimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it came. He\nstood still, putting his hand up to scratch his head under his\nhat,--trying to think what, in such an emergency, it would be well\nthat he should do. Then he heard the voice distinctly, \"I won't;--I\nwon't,\" and after that a scream. Then there were further words. \"It's\nno good--I won't.\" At last he was able to make up his mind. He rushed\nafter the sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led\nback into Goswell Road, saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms. She had\nleft the dancing establishment with her lover; and when they had come\nto the turn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to her\nfurther destiny for the night. Ruby, though she well remembered Mrs.\nPipkin's threats, was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door.\nSir Felix was of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement\nfor her; and as Ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had\nthought that a little gentle force might avail him. He had therefore\ndragged Ruby into the passage. The unfortunate one! That so ill a\nchance should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion! He\nhad swallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was therefore\nbrave with reference to that interference of the police, the fear\nof which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold of\nRuby's arm when she first raised her voice. But what amount of brandy\nand water would have enabled him to persevere, could he have dreamed\nthat John Crumb was near him? On a sudden he found a hand on his\ncoat, and he was swung violently away, and brought with his back\nagainst the railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked\nout of his body. But he could hear Ruby's exclamation, \"If it isn't\nJohn Crumb!\" Then there came upon him a sense of coming destruction,\nas though the world for him were all over; and, collapsing throughout\nhis limbs, he slunk down upon the ground.\n\n\"Get up, you wiper,\" said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it\nbetter to cling to the ground. \"You sholl get up,\" said John, taking\nhim by the collar of his coat and lifting him. \"Now, Ruby, he's\na-going to have it,\" said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top\nof her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at\nfirst attracted John Crumb's notice.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Get up, you wiper.\"]\n\n\n\"Don't hit a man when he's down,\" said the baronet, pleading as\nthough for his life.\n\n\"I wunt,\" said John;--\"but I'll hit a fellow when 'un's up.\"\nSir Felix was little more than a child in the man's arms. John\nCrumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left\narm,--getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought\nat school,--struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently\nin the face, not knowing or caring exactly where he hit him, but at\nevery blow obliterating a feature. And he would have continued had\nnot Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms. \"He's\nabout got enough of it,\" said John Crumb as he gave over his work.\nThen Sir Felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully. \"I know'd\nhe'd have to have it,\" said John Crumb.\n\nRuby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each\nend of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And now\nthe cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which she\nmade to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was\nas bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb.\nIt was in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand\nthat the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had\ninterfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very\nslow. Ruby swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty\nhad ever been done before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could\nsay nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away\nthe stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning\nagainst the railings. And John, though he endeavoured to make the\npolicemen comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young\nbaronet, would not say a word against Ruby. He was not even in the\nleast angered by her denunciations of himself. As he himself said\nsometimes afterwards, he had \"dropped into the baro-nite\" just in\ntime, and, having been successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby\nfor having made such an operation necessary.\n\nThere was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other\npersons,--cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless\nwanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the\npavements to the poor-house wards. They all took part against John\nCrumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her\nyoung man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed\nhis eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that\nhe had better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked\nthat he was \"so mashed and mauled\" that she was sure he would never\n\"come to\" again. A precocious youth remarked that he was \"all one\nas a dead 'un.\" A cabman observed that he had \"'ad it awful 'eavy.\"\nTo all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made\nno direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away\nsomewhere, though he did not much care whither.\n\nAt last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action.\nThey had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir\nFelix was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable\nto Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he\nmight be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even\nconducted to the address she gave,--not half a mile from the spot\non which they now stood,--and be left there or not according to the\naccount which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly\nlocked up in the station-house. He was the offender;--for aught that\nany of them yet knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for\nhim. He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no\nobjection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But,\nno doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had\nthoroughly thrashed his enemy.\n\nThus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and\nRuby came together to Mrs. Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud with\ncomplaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover,--who,\nperhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and\nhandcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages\namidst her lamentations. But from Mrs. Hurtle the policemen did\nmanage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes;--the girl lived\nthere and was--respectable. This man whom they had arrested was\nrespectable also, and was the girl's proper lover. The other man who\nhad been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not\nrespectable, and was only the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's\nname was given. \"I'm John Crumb of Bungay,\" said he, \"and I ain't\nafeared of nothin' nor nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I\nain't. Mauled 'un! In course I've mauled 'un. And I meaned it. That\nere young woman is engaged to be my wife.\"\n\n\"No, I ain't,\" shouted Ruby.\n\n\"But she is,\" persisted John Crumb.\n\n\"Well then, I never will,\" rejoined Ruby.\n\nJohn Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his\nheart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance\nhow it all was, but that Mr. Crumb had better come along with\nhim,--just for the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero\nfrom Bungay made not the slightest objection.\n\n\"Miss Ruggles,\" said Mrs. Hurtle, \"if that young man doesn't conquer\nyou at last you can't have a heart in your bosom.\"\n\n\"Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever\nso. He's been and killed Sir Felix.\" Mrs. Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs.\nPipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the\nthree women all went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXII.\n\n\"ASK HIMSELF.\"\n\n\nRoger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother\ndesiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's\nconnection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a\nreply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case\nif he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this\nemergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were\nhe himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and\nacting as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her that\nPaul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have\nforbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any\nother lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances\nto be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtle\nwith Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying\ntogether as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come\nto England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of\nan engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that\nMontague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been\ntold by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the\nengagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly\nbelieved the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness.\nAnd, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs.\nHurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother\nwould allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man\nembarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled\nMontague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded\nhimself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his\npresent condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.\n\nAll this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally\nclear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own\ncause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the\nfriend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had\nresolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon\nthe sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he\nloved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in\nseeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor\nto himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a\nperpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for\nthe woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there\nwere floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the\nperson of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding\nthat he and the child's father should never see each other. No more\nthan twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's\nletter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty\nhours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from\nhim, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Then\ncame the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct\nanswer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of\na certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it\ninexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed\nlover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But\nhow was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such\na letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure\nhimself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in\norder that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?\n\nAs he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's\nletter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the\nstory he could tell it better face to face than by any written words.\nSo he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and\nknocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the\nmorning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir\nFelix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a\npage should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering\nfrom some terrible calamity. \"My lady\" had been summoned to the\nhospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very\nbad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but\nsupposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes;\nMiss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though\nshe, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That\npoor Hetta should be \"put about\" with her brother in the hospital and\nher lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural\nenough.\n\n\"What's this about Felix?\" asked Roger. The new trouble always has\nprecedence over those which are of earlier date.\n\n\"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last\nnight, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the\ncity to say that he is there.\"\n\n\"What has happened to him?\"\n\n\"Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him,\" said Hetta whimpering. Then\nshe told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the\nhospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that\nnone of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about\nthe face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his\nteeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had\ngone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young\ngentleman should not be taken home. \"And mamma has gone to fetch\nhim,\" said Hetta.\n\n\"That's John Crumb,\" said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb,\nand simply stared into her cousin's face. \"You have not been told\nabout John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him.\"\n\n\"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?\"\n\n\"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that\noccur in the world.\" The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the\nwhole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. \"If it be\nas I suppose,\" continued Roger, \"John Crumb has considered himself to\nbe aggrieved and has thus avenged himself.\"\n\n\"Did you--know of him before?\"\n\n\"Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love\nwith a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife\nand have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an\nhonest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and\nhappy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though\nhe had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his\nhappiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought\nthat such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb.\"\n\n\"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!\"\n\n\"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with\nthe old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all\nchanged now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love\nwith two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he\nhas been punished.\"\n\n\"You know all about it then?\"\n\n\"No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John\nCrumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or\nlater he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to\nblame him?\"\n\nHetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his\nmanner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that\nstranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have\nmade her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer\nher. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and\nrespected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it\nwere her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the\nold-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on\nwith the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of\nthe American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it\nby words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be\nsupposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. \"It is very\nshocking,\" she said.\n\n\"Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I\npity you.\"\n\n\"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us,\" said Hetta.\nShe was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not\nas yet dare to ask the question.\n\n\"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,\" said he after\na short pause.\n\n\"Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.\"\n\n\"I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be\nhere when she brings Felix back to the house.\"\n\n\"Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are\ntroubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.\"\n\n\"Tell you what?\"\n\n\"She has written to you;--has she not?\"\n\n\"Yes; she has written to me.\"\n\n\"And about me?\"\n\n\"Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me\nalso.\"\n\n\"He told me that he would,\" whispered Hetta.\n\n\"Did he tell you of my answer?\"\n\n\"No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since.\"\n\n\"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also\nhave something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not\nattempt to show it after the same fashion.\"\n\n\"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?\"\n\n\"I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a\ndifference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word.\nYou never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard\nthought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is\nnot you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false\nthan Felix.\"\n\n\"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?\"\n\nStill he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The\ntreachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had\nbeen committed by his friend towards himself. \"He should have left\nthe place and never have come near you,\" said Roger, \"when he found\nhow it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the\ncup of water from my lips.\"\n\nHow was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have\ntouched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which\nhe had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That\nhorrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could\nhear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that\nher lover had sinned in loving her. \"But, Roger,\" she said--\"it would\nhave been the same.\"\n\n\"You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate\nwill not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But\nhe didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger\nbrother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta,\nwhat you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have\nbeen impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told\nmyself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I\nwon't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's,\nor whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you\nwill be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest\ncreature living. My hatred to him--\"\n\n\"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred.\"\n\n\"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I\ntell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love.\nAs to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has\nalways coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying,\nthen I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I\nhave no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He\nmight have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I\ncould only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me.\"\n\nBut still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. \"Roger,\" she said, \"I\nhave given it all away now. It cannot be given twice.\"\n\n\"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?\"\n\n\"I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?\"\n\n\"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He\nhas been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He\nhas turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds;\nhe has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is\nunworthy! I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\"If you thought him worthy you would tell me,\" she said, getting up\nand taking him by the arm.\n\n\"No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;\" and\nhe tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself\nfrom her hold.\n\n\"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you\nyourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so.\nIt would not be you to leave a false impression even against your\nenemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can\ntrust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a\nsister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He\nhas my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also\nhave my hand?\"\n\n\"Ask himself, Hetta.\"\n\n\"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you\nknow that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?\"\n\n\"Have you asked him?\"\n\n\"I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know\nthat such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry\nher? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I\ncannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is\nso;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?\"\n\n\"There is such a woman certainly.\"\n\n\"And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?\"\n\n\"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will\nsay neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct\nto myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs.\nHurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he\nlies you will know that he is lying.\"\n\n\"And that is all?\"\n\n\"All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I\ncannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly\nthat I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would\nwelcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never\nwelcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass\nover us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your\nlover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix,\nHetta?\"\n\n\"Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's\nheart.\"\n\n\"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence.\"\n\n\"But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the\nstreet?\"\n\n\"I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him\nperhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down\nand let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him\nup to bed, so that I need not see him.\"\n\nHetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the\nhall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to\ndescend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house,\nand then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the\ndining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a\nfeature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of\nhis beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been\nso treated that even the page would hardly have known him. \"Roger is\nup-stairs, mamma,\" said Hetta in the hall.\n\n\"Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?\"\n\n\"He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your\nletter. He says that a man named Crumb did it.\"\n\n\"Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows\neverything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this\nwretched boy?\"\n\n\"Is he hurt, mamma?\"\n\n\"Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill\nhim. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh,\nHetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and\nyou?\"\n\nOn this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal\nintercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as\ncomfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady\nCarbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had\nlearned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir\nFelix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some\ncircumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost\na necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when\na young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young\nman's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what\ncan he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash\nencounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had\ntold all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been\ncalled Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a\nyoung woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so\nmuch could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And\nwhen Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb\nwas beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does\nnot expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made\npublic, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it\nwith his own words.\n\n\"What am I to do with him?\" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. \"It is\nno use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad.\nI know that I have done much to make him what he is.\" As she said\nthis the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. \"But he is my\nchild. What am I to do with him now?\"\n\nThis was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer.\nIf he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir\nFelix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to\ndestruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did\nof his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. \"Perhaps I\nshould take him abroad,\" he said.\n\n\"Would he be better abroad than here?\"\n\n\"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running\nyou into debt.\"\n\nLady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all\nthe hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her\nTuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and\nher Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which\nshe had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become\nsomebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the\ndreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that\nshe should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be\na cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured.\nThis was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when\nalmost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But\nyet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could\nbe together. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I suppose it would be so. I only wish\nthat I might die, so that were an end of it.\"\n\n\"He might go out to one of the Colonies,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the\nbush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he\ngoes I shall go.\"\n\nAs the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin\nof his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her\nto be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for\nthe son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her\nsins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and\nthe Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in\nhis appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. \"If\nyou like to let your house for a period,\" he said, \"mine is open to\nyou.\"\n\n\"But, Felix?\"\n\n\"You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a\nhome for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that\nwould save you you can try it for six months.\"\n\n\"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that.\nAnd, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?\" Hetta herself had\nretreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure\nthat there would be questions asked and answered in her absence\nrespecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished\nit could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to\nhear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through\nher mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if\ntold to her by her cousin Roger.\n\n\"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself,\" he said.\n\n\"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is\nit not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he\nhas promised to marry?\"\n\n\"No;--that is not true.\"\n\n\"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?\"\n\nRoger hesitated a moment. \"I do not know that even that is true. When\nlast he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at\nan end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she\nhas heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the\ntruth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place\nin my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is\nthe nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the\ntruth.\"\n\nRoger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did\nhe see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could\ndo by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back\nto Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the\nprotestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from\nhis mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate\nand alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares,\nand might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no\nsuch woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not\nallow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of\nhis love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his\nduties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who\nbelonged to her.\n\nBut among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIII.\n\nMARIE'S FORTUNE.\n\n\nWhen Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father had\nalready endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken\nfrom her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth.\nShe knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she\nshould know. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with\nthe object he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge\nof the details of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when\nthe thing was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and\nMarie's memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her\nfather's anticipation. He was deriving a very considerable income\nfrom a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in\nher name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling\nhim to draw this income on her behalf. This he had done fearing\nshipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that, let\ncircumstances go as they might, there should still be left enough\nto him of the money which he had realised to enable him to live\nin comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in obscurity,\nor even in infamy. He had sworn to himself solemnly that under no\ncircumstances would he allow this money to go back into the vortex of\nhis speculations, and hitherto he had been true to his oath. Though\nbankruptcy and apparent ruin might be imminent he would not bolster\nup his credit by the use of this money even though it might appear\nat the moment that the money would be sufficient for the purpose. If\nsuch a day should come, then, with that certain income, he would make\nhimself happy, if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever\ncity of the world might know least of his antecedents, and give him\nthe warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. Such had been his scheme\nof life. But he had failed to consider various circumstances. His\ndaughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage\nmight fail to release his property,--or it might be that the very\nmoney should be required to dower his daughter. Or there might come\ntroubles on him so great that even the certainty of a future income\nwould not enable him to bear them. Now, at this present moment,\nhis mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume this\nproperty it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to\nthe Longestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some\nother difficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, he\ncertainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made\nfor himself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should\ncome they would be as good creditors as any other. But then he was\npainfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness\nwas involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand traced\nDolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old\nMr. Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed\nby the elder Mr. Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and\nhe had himself posted this letter in a pillar-box near to his own\nhouse. In the execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly\nbefriended him. He had become the tenant of Mr. Longestaffe's\nhouse, and at the same time had only been the joint tenant of Mr.\nLongestaffe's study,--so that Mr. Longestaffe's papers were almost in\nhis very hands. To pick a lock was with him an accomplishment long\nsince learned. But his science in that line did not go so far as\nto enable him to replace the bolt in its receptacle. He had picked\na lock, had found the letter prepared by Mr. Bideawhile with its\naccompanying envelope, and had then already learned enough of the\ndomestic circumstances of the Longestaffe family to feel assured that\nunless he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted\nletter by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended\ndestination. In all this fortune had in some degree befriended him.\nThe circumstances being as they were it was hardly possible that the\nforgery should be discovered. Even though the young man were to swear\nthat the signature was not his, even though the old man were to swear\nthat he had left that drawer properly locked with the unsigned letter\nin it, still there could be no evidence. People might think. People\nmight speak. People might feel sure. And then a crash would come. But\nthere would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and eat\nand drink and make merry for the rest of his days.\n\nThen there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had\nbeen so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe\nnever would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another\nmatter. Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition,\nand increasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that\nwere spread abroad,--which to Melmotte were serious indeed,--they\nnamed, at any rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing\nthat had been done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought\nactually home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he\nhad done that thing, of what use then would be all that money? When\nthat fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might\nnot be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if it might\nbe so used. No doubt all danger in that Longestaffe affair might\nbe bought off by payment of the price stipulated for the Pickering\nproperty. Neither would Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr.\nMelmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the\nmoney claimed were paid. But then the money would be as good as\nwasted by such a payment, if, as he firmly believed, no sufficient\nevidence could be produced to prove the thing which he had done.\n\nBut the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for the\ncountry of his adoption Mr. Melmotte had allowed himself to attach\nhigher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belong\nto them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all\nthe world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of\nAuld Reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost\nsafe from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought\nhe could so use the family with which he would be connected as to\nforce from it that protection which he would need. And then again, if\nhe could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a\nBritish Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failed\naltogether to enquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or\nwhat would be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage\nwould add a charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could\nnot be got to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of\nabsolute property, but he did think that the income which might thus\nbe transferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had\nbeen promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given\nproof to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the\nproperty in question.\n\nAnd indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within\nthe last few days and which had startled Mr. Melmotte very much\nindeed. On a certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and\nhad told her that he should require her signature in reference to a\ndeed. She had asked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a\ndocument regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a\ndeed once before, telling her that it was all in the way of business.\nIt was not necessary that she should ask any more questions as she\nwould be wanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not\nmerely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the\ntransaction than he had thought,--but also by a positive refusal to\nsign anything at all. The reader may understand that there had been\nmany words between them. \"I know, papa. It is that you may have the\nmoney to do what you like with. You have been so unkind to me about\nSir Felix Carbury that I won't do it. If I ever marry the money will\nbelong to my husband!\" His breath almost failed him as he listened\nto these words. He did not know whether to approach her with threats,\nwith entreaties, or with blows. Before the interview was over he had\ntried all three. He had told her that he could and would put her in\nprison for conduct so fraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her\nparent by such monstrous perversity. And at last he took her by both\narms and shook her violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut\nher to pieces; but she would sign nothing. \"I suppose you thought Sir\nFelix would have had the entire sum,\" said the father with deriding\nscorn.\n\n\"And he would;--if he had the spirit to take it,\" answered Marie.\n\nThis was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. He\nwould no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would\nsecure the Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in his\nnicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the\nLongestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that he\ncould make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he\nwas doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were very\ngreat! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him,\nand this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she would\naccept Nidderdale,--or the sweep at the crossing.\n\nOn Monday morning,--it was on the preceding Thursday that he had made\nhis famous speech in Parliament,--one of the Bideawhiles had come\nto him in the City. He had told Mr. Bideawhile that all the world\nknew that just at the present moment money was very \"tight\" in the\nCity. \"We are not asking for payment of a commercial debt,\" said Mr.\nBideawhile, \"but for the price of a considerable property which you\nhave purchased.\" Mr. Melmotte had suggested that the characteristics\nof the money were the same, let the sum in question have become due\nhow it might. Then he offered to make the payment in two bills at\nthree and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. But this\noffer Mr. Bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the\ntitle-deeds might be restored to them.\n\n\"You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds,\" said\nMelmotte. \"You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told\nyou how I propose to pay it.\"\n\nMr. Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole\ncourse of his business, in all the records of the very respectable\nfirm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this.\nOf course Mr. Longestaffe had been the person to blame,--so at least\nall the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxious\nto have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the\ntitle-deeds should be given up. But then the title-deeds had not been\nhis to surrender. The Pickering estate had been the joint property of\nhim and his son. The house had been already pulled down, and now the\npurchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! \"Do you mean\nto tell me, Mr. Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for\nwhat you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have\nalready gone out of your hands?\"\n\n\"I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value,\nthirty times the value,\" said Melmotte proudly; \"but you must know\nI should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs\ncannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's\nnotice.\" Mr. Bideawhile without using language that was absolutely\nvituperative gave Mr. Melmotte to understand that he thought that\nhe and his client had been robbed, and that he should at once take\nwhatever severest steps the law put in his power. As Mr. Melmotte\nshrugged his shoulders and made no further reply, Mr. Bideawhile\ncould only take his departure.\n\nThe attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client,\nand to his own house in opposition to Mr. Squercum, nevertheless was\nbecoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letter\nwhich Dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed.\nMr. Longestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given\nit as his opinion that Dolly had not signed the letter. His son had\ncertainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have\nhad no opportunity of signing it since. He was all but sure that he\nhad left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the room\nwhich had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his own. Then,\non entering the room in Melmotte's presence,--their friendship at the\ntime having already ceased,--he found that his drawer was open. This\nsame Mr. Bideawhile was with him at the time. \"Do you mean to say\nthat I have opened your drawer?\" said Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Longestaffe\nhad become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he\ncertainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left\nthe drawer unlocked. He knew his own habits and was sure that he had\nnever left that drawer open in his life. \"Then you must have changed\nthe habits of your life on this occasion,\" said Mr. Melmotte with\nspirit. Mr. Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within\nthe house, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured\nthe lawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that\nto the best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within\nthe drawer. Mr. Bideawhile could only remark that it was the most\nunfortunate circumstance with which he had ever been concerned.\n\nThe marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing,\nif it could only be accomplished. The reader must understand that\nthough Mr. Melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licence\nin that statement as to property thirty times as great as the price\nwhich he ought to have paid for Pickering, still there was property.\nThe man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did not\nreally know what he owned, or what he owed. But he did know that at\nthe present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. His chief\ntrust for immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had really\nbeen the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway. He had\ntrusted much to Cohenlupe,--more than it had been customary with him\nto trust to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done\nwith the railway shares at the present moment. They had fallen under\nthe panic almost to nothing. Now in the time of his trouble Melmotte\nwanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted money\nthe great railway was worth nothing. Cohenlupe told him that he must\ntide over the evil hour,--or rather over an evil month. It was at\nCohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr.\nBideawhile. \"Offer 'em again,\" said Cohenlupe. \"He must take the\nbills sooner or later.\"\n\nOn the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby\nof the House. \"Have you seen Marie lately?\" he said. Nidderdale had\nbeen assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father's\npresence, that if he married Miss Melmotte at present he would\nundoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over\n£5,000 a year. He had intended to get more than that,--and was hardly\nprepared to accept Marie at such a price; but then there probably\nwould be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering.\nMelmotte certainly had been raising money. But this might probably be\nan affair of a few weeks. Melmotte had declared that Pickering should\nbe made over to the young people at the marriage. His father had\nrecommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could be\nbroken off at the last day if the property were not forthcoming.\n\n\"I'm going up to your house almost immediately,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six,\"\nsaid Melmotte.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIV.\n\nMELMOTTE MAKES A FRIEND.\n\n\n\"Have you been thinking any more about it?\" Lord Nidderdale said to\nthe girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them\nalone together.\n\n\"I have thought ever so much more about it,\" said Marie.\n\n\"And what's the result?\"\n\n\"Oh,--I'll have you.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close\nto her, so that he might put his arm round her waist.\n\n\"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale,\" she said.\n\n\"You might as well call me John.\"\n\n\"Then wait a moment,--John. You think you might as well marry me,\nthough you don't love me a bit.\"\n\n\"That's not true, Marie.\"\n\n\"Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same,--that I\nmight as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit.\"\n\n\"But you will.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better\nknow the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not\nthink you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you.\nBut I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've\nbeen in love with.\"\n\n\"But you can't be in love with him now.\"\n\n\"Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to\nme, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad.\"\n\n\"Have I behaved bad?\"\n\n\"Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,--I have.\"\n\n\"Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it.\nBut it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being\nthere if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us\nto look on it as business.\"\n\n\"How very hard you are, Marie.\"\n\n\"No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you.\nI did love him.\"\n\n\"Surely you have found him out now.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have,\" said Marie. \"He's a poor creature.\"\n\n\"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most\nhorribly.\" Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her\nlover's arms. \"You hadn't heard it?\"\n\n\"Who has thrashed him?\"\n\n\"I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been\ncut about in a terrible manner.\"\n\n\"Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?\"\n\n\"There was a young lady in the question, Marie.\"\n\n\"A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing\nto me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I\nsuppose you've made up all that out of your own head.\"\n\n\"Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a\nyoung woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it\nsignifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?\"\n\n\"I don't care the least,\" said Marie. \"The longer it's put off the\nbetter I shall like it;--that's all.\"\n\n\"Because I'm so detestable?\"\n\n\"No,--you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only\nyou don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what\none wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never\nto be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having\nnothing on earth to give one any interest.\"\n\n\"You couldn't take any interest in me?\"\n\n\"Not the least.\"\n\n\"Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place\nwhere we live?\"\n\n\"It's a castle, I know.\"\n\n\"Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old.\"\n\n\"I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and\na new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the\ncastle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too.\"\n\n\"We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?\"\n\n\"The year after next.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Marie.\"\n\n\"To-morrow.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't be ready.\"\n\n\"You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,--kiss\nme; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter?\nNo;--I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you\nmay be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of\nyourself,--John.\"\n\nSo the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house\nthinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to\nany operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it.\nAs far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter\ndays, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known\nher. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell\nhimself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner\nof her own which made him think that she would be able to live with\nladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the\ncontrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become\nfond of her. \"Have you been up with the ladies?\" Melmotte asked him.\n\n\"Oh yes.\"\n\n\"And what does Marie say?\"\n\n\"That you must fix the day.\"\n\n\"We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to\nget away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was\nworked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and\nthat horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind\ntelling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to\nmoney. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And\nI'm not quite through it yet.\"\n\n\"I wonder why you gave the dinner then.\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\"--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a\nmarquis his dear boy,--\"as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite.\nNothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect\nupon my condition,--one way or the other.\"\n\n\"I wish it could be the same way with me,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's\nmoney out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very\ngreat. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or\nwhither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea.\nIt is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and\nwaves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half\nthe man he was. I've had it very hard this time.\"\n\n\"I suppose you are getting right now.\"\n\n\"Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I\ndon't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are\nto be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you\ncould hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it.\"\n\n\"Certainly I would not.\"\n\n\"You see I've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs.\nMy wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to\nunderstand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie.\nCohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way,\nbut I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in\none or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no\ninterest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and\nI can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest\ncomfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in\nthe matter.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business,\" said\nthe modest young lord.\n\n\"You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But\nI should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going\non. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election.\nFor forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact\nwas that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they\ncould carry the election by running me down. They were at it for\na fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what\nharm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They\ncouldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of\ndepreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money.\nThink what that is!\"\n\n\"I don't understand how it could be done.\"\n\n\"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They\npersuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and\nconsequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The\neffect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The\nMexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to\nsomething quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question.\nCohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think\nwhat that comes to!\" Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come\nto, but failed altogether. \"That's what I call a blow;--a terrible\nblow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and\nconcerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one\nproperty for another every day of his life,--according as the markets\ngo. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment.\nNobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?\"\n\n\"Will they never go up again?\"\n\n\"Oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the\nmeantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other\npurposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down\nin Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was\nobliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that\nwill be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that,\nyou know, is settled.\"\n\nHe quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he\nspoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's\nbosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of\nservice to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog,\nLord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as\nhe had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended\nscale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more\nexciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever\nthe man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this\noccasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the\ninterview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one\nwith whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could\nbecome attached.\n\nAnd Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a\nsimulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to\nhim to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he\ntrusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a\nparticipation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he\nshould ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of\nhis own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had\nbeen a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been\nonly on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion.\nEven though his friendship with the young man were but a mock\nfriendship,--though it would too probably be turned into bitter\nenmity before three months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure\nin it. The Grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,--Miles\nhaving sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe\nillness. It was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could\nspeak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.\n\nThis conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over\nMelmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to\nthe Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with\ndifficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done\nwithout rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had\nnever more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid\nwere held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand\nwhich he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr.\nFlatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden;\nbut still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its\nmembers that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had\nfelt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the\nday as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon\nand going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did Dolly\nLongestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had\nbegun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a\nresort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly\ncould have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which\nhe was accustomed.\n\nBut at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury.\nCircumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease\nand indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would\npay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would\nstill leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that\nif he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck\nto his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and\nthe title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! He did not\nknow whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the Bideawhiles, or\nMr. Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He\nwas very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the\nclub. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As\nfor the Bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. Squercum\nhad explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue\nthe world had ever produced. \"By George! the world,\" he said, \"must\nbe coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in\nParliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged\nmy name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever\ndeserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung.\" This he spoke\nopenly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as\nNidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been\ndining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some\nhalf-dozen men whom he was addressing.\n\nNidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. \"Dolly,\"\nsaid he, \"do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the\nroom. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a\nday or two. You don't know Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Mistaken!\" Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. \"Am\nI mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?\"\n\n\"I don't believe it has been owing very long.\"\n\n\"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a\nletter?\"\n\n\"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything\nto do with it.\"\n\n\"Squercum says--\"\n\n\"Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow\nof that kind.\"\n\n\"I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than\nyou do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain\nquiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself\nresponsible for the entire sum he owes you.\"\n\n\"The devil you will.\"\n\n\"I will indeed.\"\n\nNidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear\nhim, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower\nhis voice. \"That's out of the question, you know,\" he said. \"How\ncould I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a\nthief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a\ndrawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody\nknows it. Even my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many\ndays are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery.\"\n\nThis was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was\neither engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter. \"Since you\nwill speak about it in this public way--\" began Nidderdale.\n\n\"I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except\nthat I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I\nunderstand there seems to have been some blunder between your father\nand his lawyer.\"\n\n\"That's true enough,\" said Dolly; \"but it doesn't excuse Melmotte.\"\n\n\"As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid\nthan that I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Eighty thousand, the whole.\"\n\n\"Well,--eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man\nas Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Why don't he do it then?\" asked Dolly.\n\nAll this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than\nit used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get\nup a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was\noffended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the\ncountry,--a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in\nhiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported\nby plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At\nthe present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned\nthither by Mr. Ramsbottom. \"By George,\" said Dolly, as he filled\nanother pipe and ordered more brandy and water, \"I think everything\nis going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a\nthing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has\ngone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they\nowed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as\nthough there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right\nagain.\"\n\nThe opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter\nin dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was\nadmitted by some to be \"very fishy.\" If Melmotte were so great a man\nwhy didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the\nproperty before it was really his own? But the majority of the men\nthought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter,\nDolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he\nhad and what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden\nthere had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people\nwere not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as\nthey were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use\nof the money, and therefore,--as he had succeeded in getting the\nproperty into his hands,--he did make use of it. But it would be\nforthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the\nBeargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite\nof the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's dinner, in\nspite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of\nthe Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly\nLongestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that\nMelmotte would \"pull through.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXV.\n\nIN BRUTON STREET.\n\n\nMr. Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and\nanxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough\nto perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all,--if he could\nprove that which he knew. He had extended his enquiries in the city\ntill he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might\nhave had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at\npresent to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that\nMelmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star,--perhaps not giving\nsufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce.\nSquercum told a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his\nspecially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a \"gone coon.\" The\nstockbroker made also some few enquiries, and on that evening agreed\nwith Squercum that Melmotte was a \"gone coon.\" If such were the\ncase it would positively be the making of Squercum if it could be\nso managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this\noffensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were\nunable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not\ndare to bid defiance to Squercum,--feeling that they had themselves\nblundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to\nscreen a fault by a falsehood. \"I suppose you give it up about the\nletter having been signed by my client,\" said Squercum to the elder\nof the two younger Bideawhiles.\n\n\"I give up nothing and I assert nothing,\" said the superior attorney.\n\"Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it\nto be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain,\nand this one is about as like any other as that other would be like\nthe last.\"\n\n\"Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?\" Then the letter\nwhich had been very often inspected during the last ten days was\nhanded to Mr. Squercum. \"It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never\ncould have written had he tried it ever so.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not, Mr. Squercum. We are not generally on the lookout for\nforgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons.\"\n\n\"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But then Mr. Longestaffe had already told\nyou that his son would not sign the letter.\"\n\n\"How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will\nchange his purpose?\"\n\n\"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But you see after such a declaration as\nthat on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in\nitself a little irregular perhaps--\"\n\n\"I don't know that it's irregular at all.\"\n\n\"Well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll just\nsay that. What Mr. Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up\nhis title-deeds without getting anything for them--\"\n\n\"Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that's between Mr. Longestaffe and us.\"\n\n\"Just so;--but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my\nclient's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I\nthink you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr. Bideawhile, if the\ncase had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord\nMayor, you know.\" To this Mr. Bideawhile said not a word. \"And I\nthink I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the\nsignature as being genuine.\"\n\n\"I say nothing about it, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very\nhard to prove that it's not genuine.\"\n\n\"My client's oath, Mr. Bideawhile.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that, Mr. Bideawhile. I fancy that if\nI were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry\nwith me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman\nsay that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if\nsuch a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have\nsigned it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr. Longestaffe says that\nhe locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte\noccupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I\nsuppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about\nthat he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the\nletter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr.\nBideawhile.\"\n\n\"I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for\nsupposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say\nanything more.\"\n\n\"Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in\nthis matter.\"\n\n\"I won't admit even that, Mr. Squercum.\"\n\n\"The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised\nhis own interests and those of my client, while my client has not\nbeen in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the\nLord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an\ninvestigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will\nbe served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court.\"\n\n\"If so you may be sure that we shall produce it.\" Then Mr. Squercum\ntook his leave and went straight away to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well\nknown in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr.\nSquercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr. Bumby on the\nmatter more than once. Mr. Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it\nmight not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the\nmoney. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had\nfor Dolly's share of the property it might be expedient to take it.\nMr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered,\nno genuine sale having been made. Mr. Bumby shook his head.\n\"Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. You don't suppose that\nthe company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would\nhave to lose it. Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your\nchance of what you'll get out of the property. There must be assets.\"\n\n\"Every rap will have been made over,\" said Mr. Squercum.\n\nThis took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offered\nhis full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following\nWednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house\nin Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had\nbeen abstracted. There were Mr. Longestaffe, the father, Dolly\nLongestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's\npossession, and Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on\nfriendly terms. Direct application for permission to have this\nmeeting in this place had been formally made to Mr. Melmotte, and he\nhad complied. The meeting took place at eleven o'clock--a terribly\nearly hour. Dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he\nthought between the fire of two enemies, and Mr. Squercum had told\nhim that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could\nnot judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer.\nTherefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to\nhimself. \"By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all\nthis trouble about it,\" Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom\nhe had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered\nthe room last, and at that time neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr.\nBideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the\nletter had been deposited.\n\n\"Now, Mr. Longestaffe,\" said Mr. Bideawhile, \"perhaps you will show\nus where you think you put the letter.\"\n\n\"I don't think at all,\" said he. \"Since the matter has been discussed\nthe whole thing has come back upon my memory.\"\n\n\"I never signed it,\" said Dolly, standing with his hands in his\npockets and interrupting his father.\n\n\"Nobody says you did, sir,\" rejoined the father with an angry voice.\n\"If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the\ntruth.\"\n\n\"But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr. Bideawhile\nsays so.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said\nthat we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than\ngenuine. We have never gone beyond that.\"\n\n\"Nothing on earth would have made me sign it,\" said Dolly. \"Why\nshould I have given my property up before I got my money? I never\nheard such a thing in my life.\"\n\nThe father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as\nto the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. \"Now, Mr. Longestaffe,\"\ncontinued the lawyer, \"let us see where you put the letter.\"\n\nThen the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment,\nopened the drawer,--the second drawer from the top, and took from it\na bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. \"There,\" said\nhe, \"the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it,\nand the two were the two first documents in the bundle.\" He went on\nto say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He\nwas quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very\nparticular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered\nthat about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when\nhe had opened it, and,--as he was certain,--had locked it again. At\nthat special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy\nbetween him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr. Melmotte had offered\nhim a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.\n\n\"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter,\" said Dolly.\n\"It's as plain as a pike-staff. It's clear enough to hang any man.\"\n\n\"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just\nmay be the suspicion induced,\" said the lawyer. \"Your father for a\ntime was not quite certain about the letter.\"\n\n\"He thought that I had signed it,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"I am quite certain now,\" rejoined the father angrily. \"A man has to\ncollect his memory before he can be sure of anything.\"\n\n\"I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury.\"\n\n\"What I want to know is how we are to get the money,\" said Dolly.\n\"I should like to see him hung,--of course; but I'd sooner have the\nmoney. Squercum says--\"\n\n\"Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr. Squercum says.\"\n\n\"I don't know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn't be as good as what\nMr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very\naristocratic.\"\n\n\"Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,\" said the lawyer laughing.\n\n\"No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal\nlower than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's\nabout. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this\nmatter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about\nit as we do at present.\" Squercum's name was odious to the elder\nLongestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his\nfamily troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son\nwould have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the\nold Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and\nthat he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering\nproperty. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to\nhis ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room,\nshaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite\nastonished at his displeasure. \"There's nothing more to be done here,\nsir, I suppose,\" said Dolly putting on his hat.\n\n\"Nothing more,\" said Mr. Bideawhile. \"It may be that I shall have\nto instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the\npresence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so\npositively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?\"\n\n\"There is no doubt.\"\n\n\"And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop\na moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence\nhaving been used.\" So saying Mr. Bideawhile knelt down in front of\nthe table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully\nand satisfied himself that there was \"no sign of violence.\" \"Whoever\nhas done it, did it very well,\" said Bideawhile.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"I might as well see whether there is any sign\nof violence having been used.\"]\n\n\n\"Of course Melmotte did it,\" said Dolly Longestaffe standing\nimmediately over Bideawhile's shoulder.\n\nAt that moment there was a knock at the door,--a very distinct, and,\nwe may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediately\nenter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done\nso on this occasion Mr. Bideawhile would have been found still on\nhis knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the\nintruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his\nfeet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause,\nduring which Mr. Bideawhile moved away from the table,--as he might\nhave done had he been picking a lock;--and then Mr. Longestaffe bade\nthe stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened,\nand Mr. Melmotte appeared.\n\nNow Mr. Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It was\nknown that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was\nknown also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held\nin this room at this special hour,--and he might well have surmised\nwith what view. There was now declared hostility between both the\nLongestaffes and Mr. Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all\nthe gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the\nway to meet them on this occasion. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"perhaps you\nthink that I am intruding at the present moment.\" No one said that he\ndid not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr.\nBideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat\npockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a\nbar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of\nexpressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. \"I\nfear that you do think I am intruding,\" said Melmotte, \"but I trust\nthat what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir,\" he\nsaid, turning to Mr. Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open\ndrawer, \"that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will\nbe more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before.\"\n\n\"The drawer was locked when I left it,\" said Mr. Longestaffe. \"I make\nno deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked.\"\n\n\"Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it.\"\n\n\"No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no\nconclusions,--but I left it locked and I found it open.\"\n\n\"I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion,\" said Dolly; \"and\nthat would be that somebody else had opened it.\"\n\n\"This can answer no purpose at all,\" said Bideawhile.\n\n\"It was but a chance remark,\" said Melmotte. \"I did not come here\nout of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to\nsquabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you\nthree gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity\na suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this\nunfortunate business.\" He paused a moment; but neither of the three\nspoke. It did occur to Dolly to ask them to wait while he should\nfetch Squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal\nof trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. \"Mr.\nBideawhile, I believe,\" suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his\nhead. \"If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money\ndue to your clients--\"\n\n\"Squercum is my lawyer,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"That will make no difference.\"\n\n\"It makes a deal of difference,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"I wrote,\" continued Melmotte, \"offering my bills at three and six\nmonths' date.\"\n\n\"They couldn't be accepted, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused\nbefore.\"\n\n\"You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte,\" said the lawyer, \"that the sale of\na property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which\nbills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that\nmoney should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did\nlearn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course\nwe became,--well, I think I may be justified in saying more than\nsuspicious. It was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. You say you\nhave another offer to make, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose\nbusiness it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and,\nwith my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been\nknown that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth\nopenly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of\nsuch a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the\ntime came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that\nit was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened\nagainst me now. Accusations are made, false as hell,\"--Mr. Melmotte\nas he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room,--\"but which\nat the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to\nsay that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been\ncommenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is\nthe amount due to these two gentlemen,--ready for payment on Friday\nat noon.\"\n\n\"I have taken no proceedings as yet,\" said Bideawhile.\n\n\"It's Squercum,\" says Dolly.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, \"let me assure\nyou that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be\nforthcoming;--but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little\nthought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a\nstatement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But\nso it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple\nmy resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But\nwhat Mr. Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that\nthe purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary\ncommercial transaction. The money should have been paid,--and, if\nyou will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot\nbe done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The\naccusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know\nwith whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are\ndamnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present\ncrisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will\ngive me an answer.\"\n\nBoth the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth\nthe accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was\nat Dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. \"I, on\nbehalf of my client,\" said Mr. Bideawhile, \"will consent to wait till\nFriday at noon.\"\n\n\"I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much,\" said the elder\nLongestaffe.\n\nDolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but\nMelmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorry\nfor the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though\nhe had been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or\ncaused it to be forged,--and did not now go so far into the matter\nas to abandon that conviction,--he had been talked into crediting\nthe reasons given for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into\na belief that the money would be paid on Friday. Something of\nthe effect which Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord\nNidderdale, they now also had on Dolly Longestaffe. \"I'll ask\nSquercum, you know,\" he said.\n\n\"Of course Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him,\" said\nBideawhile.\n\n\"I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than\nthat. And upon my word, Mr. Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of\ntrouble.\"\n\nMelmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they three\nshould meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment\nshould then be made,--Dolly stipulating that as his father would be\nattended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To this\nMr. Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVI.\n\nHETTA AND HER LOVER.\n\n\nLady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that\nshe found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have\nbeen in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter.\nRoger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any\nrate with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to\nSuffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation\nturned naturally to Mr. Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes\nalmost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's\nlife to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two\npropositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her\nresidence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir\nFelix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should\ntake possession of Carbury manor for six months. \"And where would Mr.\nCarbury go?\" asked Mr. Broune.\n\n\"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself.\nThere's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to.\" Mr.\nBroune shook his head. Mr. Broune did not think that an offer so\nquixotically generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or\nFrench town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but\nhe doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible\nsacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go\nto the colonies. \"That he might drink himself to death,\" said Lady\nCarbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the\nmean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. He had no doubt\nbeen very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much\nailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the\npresent moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come\nout of his room and to meet the world. \"As to Melmotte,\" said Mr.\nBroune, \"they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will\nruin him and all who have trusted him.\"\n\n\"And the girl?\"\n\n\"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been\nsummoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but\nit was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still\nmeans to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth\nabout it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know\nsomething.\" The \"we\" of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the\n\"Morning Breakfast Table.\"\n\nBut in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however,\nthought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to\ntake some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover,\nwritten to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had\nconfessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once\nanswer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger\nCarbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken,\nleaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means\na fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then\nPaul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and\ncontentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the\nslightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had\nthere been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta\ncould have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden\nby her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her\nchosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in\nthat strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave\nsuch letters unanswered. Roger had told her to \"ask himself;\" and\nshe now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and\nanswer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some\nwritten account of Mrs. Hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady\nwas, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with\nher own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:--\n\n\n   Welbeck Street,\n   16th July, 18--.\n\n   MY DEAR PAUL.\n\nShe found that after that which had passed between them she could not\ncall him \"My dear Sir,\" or \"My dear Mr. Montague,\" and that it must\neither be \"Sir\" or \"My dear Paul.\" He was dear to her,--very dear;\nand she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct\nbad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no\nMrs. Hurtle he would have been her \"Dearest Paul,\"--but she made her\nchoice, and so commenced.\n\n   MY DEAR PAUL,\n\n   A strange report has come round to me about a lady called\n   Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady\n   living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife.\n   I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But\n   I fear,--I fear there is something true that will be very\n   very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first\n   heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he\n   knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin\n   Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell\n   me. He said,--\"Ask himself.\" And so I ask you. Of course I\n   can write about nothing else till I have heard about this.\n   I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very\n   unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had\n   better write. I have told mamma about this letter.\n\nThen came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration\nwhich must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she\nsubscribed herself,\n\n   Your affectionate friend,\n\n   HENRIETTA CARBURY.\n\n\n\"Most affectionately your own Hetta\" would have been the form in\nwhich she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever\nwritten to him.\n\nPaul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the\nWednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware\nthat it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of\nMrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had\nbeen impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he\nhad pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is\nintelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible\nfor him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have\ntold it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a\nsecond or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated\nby letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider\nwhether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong\nagainst such written communications. A man may desire that the woman\nhe loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after\ndays, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs.\nHurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may\nwith a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--\"Ah,\nthis is the trouble of which I spoke to you.\" And then he and his\nbeloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to\nsupply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then\nwho does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own\nfaults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by\nan admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the\nvacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the\nwritten record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing,\nthoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under\nthe half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as\nthe scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger\nof being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I\nthink therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying up to\nLondon.\n\nHe asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with\nher mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the\ndining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They\nshould know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could\nbe helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then,\nup-stairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to\nsee him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it\nwith her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would\nnot again accept her lover till this story of Mrs. Hurtle had been\nsifted to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover\nhad to say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room\nand suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his\nsister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his\nsister quietly said that she would rather see Mr. Montague herself.\nFelix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another\nword, and Hetta left the room alone.\n\nWhen she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his\narms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she\nhad prepared herself for it. \"Paul,\" she said, \"let me hear about all\nthis--first.\" She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found\nhimself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her.\n\n\"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle,\" he said, with a faint attempt\nat a smile.\n\n\"Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her.\"\n\n\"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows\nthe whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think\nyour brother is as well informed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?\"\n\n\"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it.\nAnd I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it\nyou.\"\n\n\"I will believe anything that you will tell me.\"\n\n\"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know\nall. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"Is she a widow?\"--He did not answer this at once. \"I suppose she\nmust be a widow if you were going to marry her.\"\n\n\"Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced.\"\n\n\"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you loved her?\"\n\nMontague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to\nbe interrogated. \"If you will allow me I will tell it you all from\nbeginning to end.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry\nher you must have loved her.\" There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and\na tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.\n\n\"Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all.\" Then he did\ntell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be\ndetained. Hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very\noften, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she\nspoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey\nacross the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of\nwhich Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. \"Had she been\ndivorced then?\" asked Hetta,--\"because I believe they get themselves\ndivorced just when they like.\" Simple as the question was he could\nnot answer it. \"I could only know what she told me,\" he said, as he\nwent on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and\nhe, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger.\n\"Did you give her up then?\" demanded Hetta with stern severity.\nNo,--not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not\nintended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was\nforced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had\nwritten to her on his second return to England,--and then she had\nappeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington. \"I can\nhardly tell you how terrible that was to me,\" he said, \"for I had by\nthat time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you.\"\nHe tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet\nas violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can\nbe, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very\nstern.\n\n\"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day.\"\n\nMontague had intended to tell all,--almost all. There was a something\nabout the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make\nHetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. \"It was\non account of her health.\"\n\n\"Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Was that for her--health?\"\n\n\"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that\nwhen she came here, following me, I could not desert her?\"\n\n\"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all,\" said Hetta. \"You\nsay you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to\nme to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was\ndivorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I\nam sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and\ndown to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago.\"\n\n\"It was nearly three weeks,\" said Paul in despair.\n\n\"Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a\ngentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to\nher, not three weeks ago.\"\n\n\"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then.\"\n\n\"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you.\"\n\n\"She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard\nto explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do\nnot, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to\nyou.\"\n\n\"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush\nall her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her\nbecause she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is\nan engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her\nthat you are quite ready to keep your promise.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle.\"]\n\n\n\"She knows now that it is all over.\"\n\n\"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When\nshe came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she\nasked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of\nher health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting\nhere,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very\nold,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr.\nMontague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs.\nHurtle.\" All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles\nin her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.\n\n\"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with\nme!\"\n\n\"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any\none. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs.\nHurtle.\"\n\n\"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her.\"\n\n\"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this\nstory I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he\nwould not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not\ncontradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should\nhave come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr.\nMontague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to\nLowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to\nme.\"\n\n\"What does it matter?\"\n\n\"Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now,\nMr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It\nmakes it so much easier.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?\"\n\n\"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye.\"\n\n\"Hetta!\"\n\n\"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr.\nMontague.\" And so she left him.\n\nPaul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He\nhad never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair\nof Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she\ncould only really know it all, there could be no such result. He\nhad been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her,\nnever swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved\nsome woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could\nnot, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs.\nHurtle in London,--which he would have given half his possessions to\nhave prevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see\nher? Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No\ndoubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle;--but that trouble he had\novercome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly\nhad never behaved badly to her.\n\nHe was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he\ncould do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with\nRoger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually\nfree from Mrs. Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the\nwild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content\nto abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if\npossible preserve an income on which to support her. And now she\ntold him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been\ncruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him\nfrom America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he\nthought, very little heart. \"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle\nover,\" she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her?\nSurely she might have left Mrs. Hurtle to fight her own battles.\nBut they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir\nFelix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into\nmarriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! She could not\never really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable\nof such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives.\nAnd here there was really so very little to forgive! Such were his\nthoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to\nask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he\nfound that she had been living \"nearly three weeks ago\" in close\nintercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even\nheard the name. But then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide\ndifference between young men and young women!\n\nHetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to\nher own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose\nanxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. \"Well; what\nhas he said?\" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears,--or very\nnigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost\nsuccessfully. \"You have found that what we told you about that woman\nwas all true.\"\n\n\"Enough of it was true,\" said Hetta, who, angry as she was with\nher lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for\ndisturbing her bliss.\n\n\"What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me\nopenly?\"\n\n\"I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more\nopenly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He\nis like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some\nabominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he\nhas nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else.\"\n\n\"Roger Carbury is very different.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to\nme that you do not understand in the least.\"\n\n\"I say he is not like that.\"\n\n\"Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like\nthat.\"\n\n\"I say that he can be trusted.\"\n\n\"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?\"\n\n\"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause\nfor any alarm.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Hetta jumping up, \"how can you talk to me in that way?\nAs soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh,\nmamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me\nto be more to Roger Carbury than I am now.\"\n\n\"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean.\"\n\n\"That it is all over?\" Hetta made no reply. \"Hetta, I have a right to\nask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you\nhave hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done\nnothing that I am ashamed of.\"\n\n\"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has\ncome here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--\"\n\n\"I deny that,\" exclaimed Hetta.\n\n\"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that\nshe is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that\nyou will see him no more?\"\n\n\"He understood that.\"\n\n\"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him.\"\n\n\"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly.\"\nThen Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and\nleft her daughter to her solitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVII.\n\nANOTHER SCENE IN BRUTON STREET.\n\n\nWhen Mr. Melmotte made his promise to Mr. Longestaffe and to Dolly,\nin the presence of Mr. Bideawhile, that he would, on the next day but\none, pay to them a sum of fifty thousand pounds, thereby completing,\nsatisfactorily as far as they were concerned, the purchase of the\nPickering property, he intended to be as good as his word. The reader\nknows that he had resolved to face the Longestaffe difficulty,--that\nhe had resolved that at any rate he would not get out of it by\nsacrificing the property to which he had looked forward as a safe\nhaven when storms should come. But, day by day, every resolution\nthat he made was forced to undergo some change. Latterly he had been\nintent on purchasing a noble son-in-law with this money,--still\ntrusting to the chapter of chances for his future escape from the\nLongestaffe and other difficulties. But Squercum had been very hard\nupon him; and in connexion with this accusation as to the Pickering\nproperty, there was another, which he would be forced to face also,\nrespecting certain property in the East of London, with which the\nreader need not much trouble himself specially, but in reference to\nwhich it was stated that he had induced a foolish old gentleman to\nconsent to accept railway shares in lieu of money. The old gentleman\nhad died during the transaction, and it was asserted that the old\ngentleman's letter was hardly genuine. Melmotte had certainly raised\nbetween twenty and thirty thousand pounds on the property, and had\nmade payments for it in stock which was now worth--almost nothing at\nall. Melmotte thought that he might face this matter successfully\nif the matter came upon him single-handed;--but in regard to the\nLongestaffes he considered that now, at this last moment, he had\nbetter pay for Pickering.\n\nThe property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds was\nreally his own. There could be no doubt about that. It had never been\nhis intention to make it over to his daughter. When he had placed it\nin her name, he had done so simply for security,--feeling that his\ncontrol over his only daughter would be perfect and free from danger.\nNo girl apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud\nher father could have crept quietly about a father's house. Nor did\nhe now think that she would disobey him when the matter was explained\nto her. Heavens and earth! That he should be robbed by his own\nchild,--robbed openly, shamefully, with brazen audacity! It was\nimpossible. But still he had felt the necessity of going about this\nbusiness with some little care. It might be that she would disobey\nhim if he simply sent for her and bade her to affix her signature\nhere and there. He thought much about it and considered that it would\nbe wise that his wife should be present on the occasion, and that\na full explanation should be given to Marie, by which she might be\nmade to understand that the money had in no sense become her own. So\nhe gave instructions to his wife when he started into the city that\nmorning; and when he returned, for the sake of making his offer to\nthe Longestaffes, he brought with him the deeds which it would be\nnecessary that Marie should sign, and he brought also Mr. Croll, his\nclerk, that Mr. Croll might witness the signature.\n\nWhen he left the Longestaffes and Mr. Bideawhile he went at once to\nhis wife's room. \"Is she here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I will send for her. I have told her.\"\n\n\"You haven't frightened her?\"\n\n\"Why should I frighten her? It is not very easy to frighten her,\nMelmotte. She is changed since these young men have been so much\nabout her.\"\n\n\"I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her. Bid her come\nnow.\" This was said in French. Then Madame Melmotte left the room,\nand Melmotte arranged a lot of papers in order upon a table. Having\ndone so, he called to Croll, who was standing on the landing-place,\nand told him to seat himself in the back drawing-room till he should\nbe called. Melmotte then stood with his back to the fire-place in his\nwife's sitting-room, with his hands in his pockets, contemplating\nwhat might be the incidents of the coming interview. He would be very\ngracious,--affectionate if it were possible,--and, above all things,\nexplanatory. But, by heavens, if there were continued opposition\nto his demand,--to his just demand,--if this girl should dare to\ninsist upon exercising her power to rob him, he would not then be\naffectionate,--nor gracious! There was some little delay in the\ncoming of the two women, and he was already beginning to lose his\ntemper when Marie followed Madame Melmotte into the room. He at once\nswallowed his rising anger--with an effort. He would put a constraint\nupon himself. The affection and the graciousness should be all\nthere,--as long as they might secure the purpose in hand.\n\n\"Marie,\" he began, \"I spoke to you the other day about some property\nwhich for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we were\nleaving Paris.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa.\"\n\n\"You were such a child then,--I mean when we left Paris,--that I\ncould hardly explain to you the purpose of what I did.\" \"I understood\nit, papa.\"\n\n\"You had better listen to me, my dear. I don't think you did quite\nunderstand it. It would have been very odd if you had, as I never\nexplained it to you.\"\n\n\"You wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble.\"\n\nThis was so true that Melmotte did not know how at the moment to\ncontradict the assertion. And yet he had not intended to talk of the\npossibility of trouble. \"I wanted to lay aside a large sum of money\nwhich should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercial\nenterprise.\"\n\n\"So that nobody could get at it.\"\n\n\"You are a little too quick, my dear.\"\n\n\"Marie, why can't you let your papa speak?\" said Madame Melmotte.\n\n\"But of course, my dear,\" continued Melmotte, \"I had no idea of\nputting the money beyond my own reach. Such a transaction is very\ncommon; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some one\nwho is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he can\nput full confidence. And it is customary to choose a young person, as\nthere will then be less danger of the accident of death. It was for\nthese reasons, which I am sure that you will understand, that I chose\nyou. Of course the property remained exclusively my own.\"\n\n\"But it is really mine,\" said Marie.\n\n\"No, miss; it was never yours,\" said Melmotte, almost bursting out\ninto anger, but restraining himself. \"How could it become yours,\nMarie? Did I ever make you a gift of it?\"\n\n\"But I know that it did become mine,--legally.\"\n\n\"By a quibble of law,--yes; but not so as to give you any right to\nit. I always draw the income.\"\n\n\"But I could stop that, papa,--and if I were married, of course it\nwould be stopped.\"\n\nThen, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred to\nMelmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child of\nhis might be stiff-necked. \"As we are thinking of your marriage,\" he\nsaid, \"it is necessary that a change should be made. Settlements must\nbe drawn for the satisfaction of Lord Nidderdale and his father. The\nold Marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendid\nthat I have consented. You must now sign these papers in four or\nfive places. Mr. Croll is here, in the next room, to witness your\nsignature, and I will call him.\"\n\n\"Wait a moment, papa.\"\n\n\"Why should we wait?\"\n\n\"I don't think I will sign them.\"\n\n\"Why not sign them? You can't really suppose that the property is\nyour own. You could not even get it if you did think so.\"\n\n\"I don't know how that may be; but I had rather not sign them. If I\nam to be married, I ought not to sign anything except what he tells\nme.\"\n\n\"He has no authority over you yet. I have authority over you. Marie,\ndo not give more trouble. I am very much pressed for time. Let me\ncall in Mr. Croll.\"\n\n\"No, papa,\" she said.\n\nThen came across his brow that look which had probably first induced\nMarie to declare that she would endure to be \"cut to pieces,\" rather\nthan to yield in this or that direction. The lower jaw squared\nitself, and the teeth became set, and the nostrils of his nose became\nextended,--and Marie began to prepare herself to be \"cut to pieces.\"\nBut he reminded himself that there was another game which he had\nproposed to play before he resorted to anger and violence. He would\ntell her how much depended on her compliance. Therefore he relaxed\nthe frown,--as well as he knew how, and softened his face towards\nher, and turned again to his work. \"I am sure, Marie, that you will\nnot refuse to do this when I explain to you its importance to me. I\nmust have that property for use in the city to-morrow, or--I shall\nbe ruined.\" The statement was very short, but the manner in which he\nmade it was not without effect.\n\n\"Oh!\" shrieked his wife.\n\n\"It is true. These harpies have so beset me about the election that\nthey have lowered the price of every stock in which I am concerned,\nand have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they cannot be sold\nat all. I don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but on\nthis occasion I cannot help it. The sum locked up here is very large,\nand I am compelled to use it. In point of fact it is necessary to\nsave us from destruction.\" This he said, very slowly, and with the\nutmost solemnity.\n\n\"But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to be\nmarried,\" rejoined Marie.\n\nA liar has many points in his favour,--but he has this against him,\nthat unless he devote more time to the management of his lies than\nlife will generally allow, he cannot make them tally. Melmotte was\nthrown back for a moment, and almost felt that the time for violence\nhad come. He longed to be at her that he might shake the wickedness\nand the folly, and the ingratitude out of her. But he once more\ncondescended to argue and to explain. \"I think you misunderstood me,\nMarie. I meant you to understand that settlements must be made, and\nthat of course I must get my own property back into my own hands\nbefore anything of that kind can be done. I tell you once more, my\ndear, that if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use that\nproperty the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. Everything\nwill be gone.\"\n\n\"This can't be gone,\" said Marie, nodding her head at the papers.\n\n\"Marie,--do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined? I have done a\ngreat deal for you.\"\n\n\"You turned away the only person I ever cared for,\" said Marie.\n\n\"Marie, how can you be so wicked? Do as your papa bids you,\" said\nMadame Melmotte.\n\n\"No!\" said Melmotte. \"She does not care who is ruined, because we\nsaved her from that reprobate.\"\n\n\"She will sign them now,\" said Madame Melmotte.\n\n\"No;--I will not sign them,\" said Marie. \"If I am to be married to\nLord Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing\nwithout telling him. And if the property was once made to be mine,\nI don't think I ought to give it up again because papa says that he\nis going to be ruined. I think that's a reason for not giving it up\nagain.\"\n\n\"It isn't yours to give. It's mine,\" said Melmotte gnashing his\nteeth.\n\n\"Then you can do what you like with it without my signing,\" said\nMarie.\n\nHe paused a moment, and then laying his hand gently upon her\nshoulder, he asked her yet once again. His voice was changed, and was\nvery hoarse. But he still tried to be gentle with her. \"Marie,\" he\nsaid, \"will you do this to save your father from destruction?\"\n\nBut she did not believe a word that he said to her. How could she\nbelieve him? He had taught her to regard him as her natural enemy,\nmaking her aware that it was his purpose to use her as a chattel for\nhis own advantage, and never allowing her for a moment to suppose\nthat aught that he did was to be done for her happiness. And now,\nalmost in a breath, he had told her that this money was wanted that\nit might be settled on her and the man to whom she was to be married,\nand then that it might be used to save him from instant ruin. She\nbelieved neither one story nor the other. That she should have done\nas she was desired in this matter can hardly be disputed. The father\nhad used her name because he thought that he could trust her. She\nwas his daughter and should not have betrayed his trust. But she had\nsteeled herself to obstinacy against him in all things. Even yet,\nafter all that had passed, although she had consented to marry Lord\nNidderdale, though she had been forced by what she had learned to\ndespise Sir Felix Carbury, there was present to her an idea that she\nmight escape with the man she really loved. But any such hope could\ndepend only on the possession of the money which she now claimed as\nher own. Melmotte had endeavoured to throw a certain supplicatory\npathos into the question he had asked her; but, though he was in some\ndegree successful with his voice, his eyes and his mouth and his\nforehead still threatened her. He was always threatening her. All her\nthoughts respecting him reverted to that inward assertion that he\nmight \"cut her to pieces\" if he liked. He repeated his question in\nthe pathetic strain. \"Will you do this now,--to save us all from\nruin?\" But his eyes still threatened her.\n\n\"No;\" she said, looking up into his face as though watching for the\npersonal attack which would be made upon her; \"no, I won't.\"\n\n\"Marie!\" exclaimed Madame Melmotte.\n\nShe glanced round for a moment at her pseudo-mother with contempt.\n\"No;\" she said. \"I don't think I ought,--and I won't.\"\n\n\"You won't!\" shouted Melmotte. She merely shook her head. \"Do you\nmean that you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at\nthe moment you can destroy him by your wickedness?\" She shook her\nhead but said no other word.\n\n   \"Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet.\"\n\n   \"Let not Medea with unnatural rage\n    Slaughter her mangled infants on the stage.\"\n\nNor will I attempt to harrow my readers by a close description of the\nscene which followed. Poor Marie! That cutting her up into pieces was\ncommenced after a most savage fashion. Marie crouching down hardly\nuttered a sound. But Madame Melmotte frightened beyond endurance\nscreamed at the top of her voice,--\"Ah, Melmotte, tu la tueras!\"\nAnd then she tried to drag him from his prey. \"Will you sign them\nnow?\" said Melmotte, panting. At that moment Croll, frightened by the\nscreams, burst into the room. It was perhaps not the first time that\nhe had interfered to save Melmotte from the effects of his own wrath.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Melmotte, vat is de matter?\" asked the clerk.\n\nMelmotte was out of breath and could hardly tell his story. Marie\ngradually recovered herself, and crouched, cowering, in a corner of\na sofa, by no means vanquished in spirit, but with a feeling that\nthe very life had been crushed out of her body. Madame Melmotte\nwas standing weeping copiously, with her handkerchief up to her\neyes. \"Will you sign the papers?\" Melmotte demanded. Marie, lying\nas she was, all in a heap, merely shook her head. \"Pig!\" said\nMelmotte,--\"wicked, ungrateful pig.\"\n\n\"Ah, Ma'am-moiselle,\" said Croll, \"you should oblige your fader.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Ah, Ma'am-moiselle,\" said Croll, \"you should\noblige your fader.\"]\n\n\n\"Wretched, wicked girl!\" said Melmotte, collecting the papers\ntogether. Then he left the room, and followed by Croll descended to\nthe study, whence the Longestaffes and Mr. Bideawhile had long since\ntaken their departure.\n\nMadame Melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some minutes\nspoke never a word. Marie lay on the sofa, all in a heap, with her\nhair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing hard, but\nuttering no sobs and shedding no tears. The stepmother,--if she might\nso be called,--did not think of attempting to persuade where her\nhusband had failed. She feared Melmotte so thoroughly, and was so\ntimid in regard to her own person, that she could not understand\nthe girl's courage. Melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as\nSatan,--whom she never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived\nhim, and was constantly detected in her deceptions. Marie seemed to\nher to have all her father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much\nof his power. At the present moment she did not dare to tell the girl\nthat she had been wrong. But she had believed her husband when he had\nsaid that destruction was coming, and had partly believed him when he\ndeclared that the destruction might be averted by Marie's obedience.\nHer life had been passed in almost daily fear of destruction. To\nMarie the last two years of splendour had been so long that they had\nproduced a feeling of security. But to the elder woman the two years\nhad not sufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and\nnever for a moment had she felt herself to be secure. At last she\nasked the girl what she would like to have done for her. \"I wish he\nhad killed me,\" Marie said, slowly dragging herself up from the sofa,\nand retreating without another word to her own room.\n\nIn the meantime another scene was being acted in the room below.\nMelmotte after he reached the room hardly made a reference to his\ndaughter,--merely saying that nothing would overcome her wicked\nobstinacy. He made no allusion to his own violence, nor had Croll the\ncourage to expostulate with him now that the immediate danger was\nover. The Great Financier again arranged the papers, just as they had\nbeen laid out before,--as though he thought that the girl might be\nbrought down to sign them there. And then he went on to explain to\nCroll what he had wanted to have done,--how necessary it was that the\nthing should be done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that in\nsuch a crisis of his life he should be hampered, impeded,--he did not\nventure to his clerk to say ruined,--by the ill-conditioned obstinacy\nof a girl! He explained very fully how absolutely the property was\nhis own, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it\nfrom him! How monstrous in its injustice was the present position\nof things! In all this Croll fully agreed. Then Melmotte went on\nto declare that he would not feel the slightest scruple in writing\nMarie's signature to the papers himself. He was the girl's father and\nwas justified in acting for her. The property was his own property,\nand he was justified in doing with it as he pleased. Of course he\nwould have no scruple in writing his daughter's name. Then he looked\nup at the clerk. The clerk again assented,--after a fashion, not by\nany means with the comfortable certainty with which he had signified\nhis accordance with his employer's first propositions. But he did\nnot, at any rate, hint any disapprobation of the step which Melmotte\nproposed to take. Then Melmotte went a step farther, and explained\nthat the only difficulty in reference to such a transaction would\nbe that the signature of his daughter would be required to be\ncorroborated by that of a witness before he could use it. Then he\nagain looked up at Croll;--but on this occasion Croll did not move a\nmuscle of his face. There certainly was no assent. Melmotte continued\nto look at him; but then came upon the old clerk's countenance a\nstern look which amounted to very strong dissent. And yet Croll had\nbeen conversant with some irregular doings in his time, and Melmotte\nknew well the extent of Croll's experience. Then Melmotte made a\nlittle remark to himself. \"He knows that the game is pretty well\nover.\" \"You had better return to the city now,\" he said aloud. \"I\nshall follow you in half an hour. It is quite possible that I may\nbring my daughter with me. If I can make her understand this thing I\nshall do so. In that case I shall want you to be ready.\" Croll again\nsmiled, and again assented, and went his way.\n\nBut Melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter. As soon as\nCroll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk and\ndrawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter and\nof this German clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin tissue\npaper. He commenced his present operation by bolting his door and\npulling down the blinds. He practised the two signatures for the best\npart of an hour. Then he forged them on the various documents;--and,\nhaving completed the operation, refolded them, placed them in a\nlittle locked bag of which he had always kept the key in his purse,\nand then, with the bag in his hand, was taken in his brougham into\nthe city.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVIII.\n\nMISS LONGESTAFFE AGAIN AT CAVERSHAM.\n\n\nAll this time Mr. Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London\nwhile the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at\nCaversham. He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after\nhis visit to Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had\nspoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as a thing utterly\nout of the question. Georgiana had made one little fight for her\nindependence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. \"Indeed, papa, I think it's\nvery hard,\" she said.\n\n\"What's hard? I think a great many things are hard; but I have to\nbear them.\"\n\n\"You can do nothing for me.\"\n\n\"Do nothing for you! Haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes\nto wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you\nchoose to read them? What do you expect?\"\n\n\"You know, papa, that's nonsense.\"\n\n\"How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?\"\n\n\"Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what's\nto be the end of it? Sophia, I suppose, is going to be married.\"\n\n\"I am happy to say she is,--to a most respectable young man and a\nthorough gentleman.\"\n\n\"And Dolly has his own way of going on.\"\n\n\"You have nothing to do with Adolphus.\"\n\n\"Nor will he have anything to do with me. If I don't marry what's to\nbecome of me? It isn't that Mr. Brehgert is the sort of man I should\nchoose.\"\n\n\"Do not mention his name to me.\"\n\n\"But what am I to do? You give up the house in town, and how am I to\nsee people? It was you sent me to Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"I didn't send you to Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa. And of course I could\nonly see the people he had there. I like nice people as well as\nanybody.\"\n\n\"There's no use talking any more about it.\"\n\n\"I don't see that. I must talk about it, and think about it too. If\nI can put up with Mr. Brehgert I don't see why you and mamma should\ncomplain.\"\n\n\"A Jew!\"\n\n\"People don't think about that as they used to, papa. He has a very\nfine income, and I should always have a house in--\"\n\nThen Mr. Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped her\nfor that time. \"Look here,\" he said, \"if you mean to tell me that you\nwill marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent it. But you\nshall not marry him as my daughter. You shall be turned out of my\nhouse, and I will never have your name pronounced in my presence\nagain. It is disgusting,--degrading,--disgraceful!\" And then he left\nher.\n\nOn the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see Mr.\nBrehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had\nshe the courage to ask him. The objectionable name was not mentioned\nagain in her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between\nherself, Lady Pomona, and her sister. When Mr. Longestaffe and his\nyounger daughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the\nhall to meet her child,--from whom she had that morning received the\ndreadful tidings about the Jew. As to these tidings she had as yet\nheard no direct condemnation from her husband. The effect upon Lady\nPomona had been more grievous even than that made upon the father.\nMr. Longestaffe had been able to declare immediately that the\nproposed marriage was out of the question, that nothing of the kind\nshould be allowed, and could take upon himself to see the Jew with\nthe object of breaking off the engagement. But poor Lady Pomona was\nhelpless in her sorrow. If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew tradesman\nshe could not help it. But such an occurrence in the family would,\nshe felt, be to her as though the end of all things had come. She\ncould never again hold up her head, never go into society, never\ntake pleasure in her powdered footmen. When her daughter should have\nmarried a Jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage\nto look even her neighbours Mrs. Yeld and Mrs. Hepworth in the face.\nGeorgiana found no one in the hall to meet her, and dreaded to go to\nher mother. She first went with her maid to her own room, and waited\nthere till Sophia came to her. As she sat pretending to watch the\nprocess of unpacking, she strove to regain her courage. Why need she\nbe afraid of anybody? Why, at any rate, should she be afraid of other\nfemales? Had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister?\n\"Oh, Georgey,\" said Sophia, \"this is wonderful news!\"\n\n\"I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be\nmarried except yourself.\"\n\n\"No;--but such a very odd match!\"\n\n\"Look here, Sophia. If you don't like it, you need not talk about it.\nWe shall always have a house in town, and you will not. If you don't\nlike to come to us, you needn't. That's about all.\"\n\n\"George wouldn't let me go there at all,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"Then--George--had better keep you at home at Toodlam. Where's mamma?\nI should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a\nword to me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like\nthis.\"\n\n\"Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up and in her own room. You\nmustn't be surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut\nup about this.\" Then Georgiana understood that she must be content to\nstand all alone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up\nMr. Brehgert.\n\n\"So I've come back,\" said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing her\nmother.\n\n\"Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!\" said Lady Pomona, slowly raising\nherself and covering her face with one of her hands. \"This is\ndreadful. It will kill me. It will indeed. I didn't expect it from\nyou.\"\n\n\"What is the good of all that, mamma?\"\n\n\"It seems to me that it can't be possible. It's unnatural. It's worse\nthan your wife's sister. I'm sure there's something in the Bible\nagainst it. You never would read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going\nto do this.\"\n\n\"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,--and she goes\neverywhere.\"\n\n\"What does your papa say? I'm sure your papa won't allow it. If he's\nfixed about anything, it's about the Jews. An accursed race;--think\nof that, Georgiana;--expelled from Paradise.\"\n\n\"Mamma, that's nonsense.\"\n\n\"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody\nis. And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up that they have\nbeen able to sit in Parliament.\"\n\n\"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew,\" said Georgiana,\nwho had already learned to fortify her own case.\n\n\"Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else but\nwhat they are. I'm sure that Mr. Whitstable, who is to be your\nbrother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him.\"\n\nNow, if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised\nfrom her youth upwards it was George Whitstable. He had been a\nlaughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded\nas a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of\nrural dullness since he had become a man. He certainly was neither\nbeautiful nor bright;--but he was a Conservative squire born of Tory\nparents. Nor was he rich,--having but a moderate income, sufficient\nto maintain a moderate country house and no more. When first\nthere came indications that Sophia intended to put up with George\nWhitstable, the more ambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her\nscorn. And now she was told that George Whitstable would not speak to\nher future husband! She was not to marry Mr. Brehgert lest she should\nbring disgrace, among others, upon George Whitstable! This was not to\nbe endured.\n\n\"Then Mr. Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not\ntrouble his head at all about me or my husband. I'm sure I shan't\ntrouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about\nme. George Whitstable knows as much about London as I do about the\nmoon.\"\n\n\"He has always been in county society,\" said Sophia, \"and was staying\nonly the other day at Lord Cantab's.\"\n\n\"Then there were two fools together,\" said Georgiana, who at this\nmoment was very unhappy.\n\n\"Mr. Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will make\nyour sister happy; but as for Mr. Brehgert,--I can't bear to have his\nname mentioned in my hearing.\"\n\n\"Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. At any rate it shan't\nbe mentioned again by me.\" Having so spoken, Georgiana bounced out of\nthe room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came\ndown into the drawing-room before dinner.\n\nHer position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her\nfeelings. She presumed that her father had seen Mr. Brehgert, but did\nnot in the least know what had passed between them. It might be that\nher father had been so decided in his objection as to induce Mr.\nBrehgert to abandon his intention,--and if this were so, there could\nbe no reason why she should endure the misery of having the Jew\nthrown in her face. Among them all they had made her think that she\nwould never become Mrs. Brehgert. She certainly was not prepared to\nnail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for Brehgert. She\nwas almost sick of the thing herself. But she could not back out of\nit so as to obliterate all traces of the disgrace. Even if she should\nnot ultimately marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been\nengaged to a Jew,--and then it would certainly be said afterwards\nthat the Jew had jilted her. She was thus vacillating in her mind,\nnot knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him. That\nevening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being \"far from\nwell.\" It was of course known to them all that Mr. Brehgert was her\nailment. She was accompanied by her elder daughter, and Georgiana\nwas left with her father. Not a word was spoken between them. He sat\nbehind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself\nalone and deserted in that big room. It seemed to her that even the\nservants treated her with disdain. Her own maid had already given her\nnotice. It was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise\nher altogether. Of what service would it be to her that Lady Julia\nGoldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to\nbe left without a single Christian friend? Would a life passed\nexclusively among the Jews content even her lessened ambition? At\nten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. Her father\ngrunted less audibly than usual under the operation. She had always\ngiven herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her\ncourage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as\nthese.\n\nOn the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies\nwere left alone. Great preparations were going on for the Whitstable\nwedding. Dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultations\nheld,--from all which things Georgiana was kept quite apart. The\naccepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as though\nthe Whitstables had always kept a town house. Sophy loomed so large\nin her triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. All\nCaversham treated her with a new respect. And yet if Toodlam was a\ncouple of thousand a year, it was all it was;--and there were two\nunmarried sisters! Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time\nshe saw her younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive\nparent. Oh, heavens;--was Mr. Brehgert with his two houses worth all\nthis? A feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came\nover her. Even Caversham, the Caversham of old days which she had\nhated, but in which she had made herself respected and partly feared\nby everybody about the place,--had charms for her which seemed to\nher delightful now that they were lost for ever. Then she had always\nconsidered herself to be the first personage in the house,--superior\neven to her father;--but now she was decidedly the last.\n\nHer second evening was worse even than the first. When Mr.\nLongestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room\nbetween the library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the\nfamily consisted only of Georgiana. In the course of the evening she\nwent up-stairs and calling her sister out into the passage demanded\nto be told why she was thus deserted. \"Poor mamma is very ill,\" said\nSophy.\n\n\"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this,\" said Georgiana.\n\"I'll go away somewhere.\"\n\n\"How can I help it, Georgey? It's your own doing. Of course you must\nhave known that you were going to separate yourself from us.\"\n\nOn the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr. Longestaffe,--of\nwhat nature Georgey did not know as it was addressed to Lady Pomona.\nBut one enclosure she was allowed to see. \"Mamma,\" said Sophy,\n\"thinks you ought to know how Dolly feels about it.\" And then a\nletter from Dolly to his father was put into Georgey's hands. The\nletter was as follows:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR FATHER,--\n\n   Can it be true that Georgey is thinking of marrying that\n   horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert? The fellows say so; but I\n   can't believe it. I'm sure you wouldn't let her. You ought\n   to lock her up.\n\n   Yours affectionately,\n\n   A. LONGESTAFFE.\n\n\nDolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were,\nthey always contained advice or instruction, such as should come from\na father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. This letter\nhad not been received with a welcome. Nevertheless the head of the\nfamily had thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent\nit to Caversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious\ndaughter.\n\nAnd so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! She'd like to\nsee somebody do it! As soon as she had read her brother's epistle she\ntore it into fragments and threw it away in her sister's presence.\n\"How can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what Dolly\nsays? Who doesn't know that he's an idiot? And papa has thought it\nworth his while to send that down here for me to see! Well, after\nthat I must say that I don't much care what papa does.\"\n\n\"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody\nelse,\" said Sophy.\n\n\"As well as George Whitstable? As far as stupidness goes they are\nabout the same. But Dolly has a little more knowledge of the world.\"\n\n\"Of course we all know, Georgiana,\" rejoined the elder sister,\n\"that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the\ncommercial classes, and especially among a certain sort.\"\n\n\"I've done with you all,\" said Georgey rushing out of the room. \"I'll\nhave nothing more to do with any one of you.\"\n\nBut it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her\nfamily! A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or come\nand claim his property after twenty years. A young man may demand an\nallowance, and has almost a right to live alone. The young male bird\nis supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. But the daughter of\na house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a\nhusband. The only way in which Georgey could \"have done\" with them\nall at Caversham would be by trusting herself to Mr. Brehgert, and at\nthe present moment she did not know whether Mr. Brehgert did or did\nnot consider himself as engaged to her.\n\nThat day also passed away with ineffable tedium. At one time she was\nso beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to\nher sister in reference to the wedding garments. In spite of the\nvery bitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would\nhave done so had Sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. But\nSophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. In her younger days\nshe had had her bad things, and now,--with George Whitstable by her\nside,--she meant to have good things, the goodness of which was\ninfinitely enhanced by the badness of her sister's things. She\nhad been so greatly despised that the charm of despising again\nwas irresistible. And she was able to reconcile her cruelty to\nher conscience by telling herself that duty required her to show\nimplacable resistance to such a marriage as this which her sister\ncontemplated. Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day, not in the\nleast knowing what was to be her fate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIX.\n\nTHE BREHGERT CORRESPONDENCE.\n\n\nMr. Longestaffe had brought his daughter down to Caversham on a\nWednesday. During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a very sad\ntime, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry Mr.\nBrehgert. Her father had declared to her that he would break off\nthe match, and she believed that he had seen Mr. Brehgert with that\npurpose. She had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted to\nany one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield. But\nshe felt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to\nher purpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return\nto London with a feeling that she might still be controlled. She\nwas beginning to be angry with Mr. Brehgert, thinking that he had\ntaken his dismissal from her father without consulting her. It was\nnecessary that something should be settled, something known. Life\nsuch as that she was leading now would drive her mad. She had all the\ndisadvantages of the Brehgert connection and none of the advantages.\nShe could not comfort herself with thinking of the Brehgert wealth\nand the Brehgert houses, and yet she was living under the general\nban of Caversham on account of her Brehgert associations. She was\nbeginning to think that she herself must write to Mr. Brehgert,--only\nshe did not know what to say to him.\n\nBut on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr. Brehgert.\nIt was handed to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her\nsister,--who at that moment was triumphant with a present of\ngooseberries which had been sent over from Toodlam. The Toodlam\ngooseberries were noted throughout Suffolk, and when the letters were\nbeing brought in Sophia was taking her lover's offering from the\nbasket with her own fair hands. \"Well!\" Georgey had exclaimed, \"to\nsend a pottle of gooseberries to his lady love across the country!\nWho but George Whitstable would do that?\"\n\n\"I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold,\" Sophy retorted. \"I\ndon't suppose that Mr. Brehgert knows what a gooseberry is.\" At that\nmoment the letter was brought in, and Georgiana knew the writing. \"I\nsuppose that's from Mr. Brehgert,\" said Sophy.\n\n\"I don't think it matters much to you who it's from.\" She tried to be\ncomposed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow of\ncomposure, and she retired to read it in privacy.\n\nThe letter was as follows:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR GEORGIANA,\n\n   Your father came to me the day after I was to have met you\n   at Lady Monogram's party. I told him then that I would not\n   write to you till I had taken a day or two to consider\n   what he said to me;--and also that I thought it better\n   that you should have a day or two to consider what he\n   might say to you. He has now repeated what he said at our\n   first interview, almost with more violence; for I must say\n   that I think he has allowed himself to be violent when it\n   was surely unnecessary.\n\n   The long and short of it is this. He altogether\n   disapproves of your promise to marry me. He has given\n   three reasons;--first that I am in trade; secondly that\n   I am much older than you, and have a family; and thirdly\n   that I am a Jew. In regard to the first I can hardly\n   think that he is earnest. I have explained to him that my\n   business is that of a banker; and I can hardly conceive it\n   to be possible that any gentleman in England should object\n   to his daughter marrying a banker, simply because the man\n   is a banker. There would be a blindness of arrogance in\n   such a proposition of which I think your father to be\n   incapable. This has merely been added in to strengthen his\n   other objections.\n\n   As to my age, it is just fifty-one. I do not at all think\n   myself too old to be married again. Whether I am too old\n   for you is for you to judge,--as is also that question of\n   my children who, of course, should you become my wife will\n   be to some extent a care upon your shoulders. As this is\n   all very serious you will not, I hope, think me wanting in\n   gallantry if I say that I should hardly have ventured to\n   address you if you had been quite a young girl. No doubt\n   there are many years between us;--and so I think there\n   should be. A man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman\n   of the same standing as himself. But the question is one\n   for the lady to decide,--and you must decide it now.\n\n   As to my religion, I acknowledge the force of what your\n   father says,--though I think that a gentleman brought up\n   with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in\n   language less likely to give offence. However I am a man\n   not easily offended; and on this occasion I am ready to\n   take what he has said in good part. I can easily conceive\n   that there should be those who think that the husband and\n   wife should agree in religion. I am indifferent to it\n   myself. I shall not interfere with you if you make me\n   happy by becoming my wife, nor, I suppose, will you with\n   me. Should you have a daughter or daughters I am quite\n   willing that they should be brought up subject to your\n   influence.\n\nThere was a plain-speaking in this which made Georgiana look round\nthe room as though to see whether any one was watching her as she\nread it.\n\n   But no doubt your father objects to me specially because\n   I am a Jew. If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say\n   nothing on the subject of religion. On this matter as well\n   as on others it seems to me that your father has hardly\n   kept pace with the movements of the age. Fifty years ago\n   whatever claim a Jew might have to be as well considered\n   as a Christian, he certainly was not so considered.\n   Society was closed against him, except under special\n   circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high\n   position. But that has been altered. Your father does not\n   admit the change; but I think he is blind to it, because\n   he does not wish to see.\n\n   I say all this more as defending myself than as combating\n   his views with you. It must be for you and for you alone\n   to decide how far his views shall govern you. He has told\n   me, after a rather peremptory fashion, that I have behaved\n   badly to him and to his family because I did not go to\n   him in the first instance when I thought of obtaining\n   the honour of an alliance with his daughter. I have been\n   obliged to tell him that in this matter I disagree with\n   him entirely, though in so telling him I endeavoured to\n   restrain myself from any appearance of warmth. I had not\n   the pleasure of meeting you in his house, nor had I any\n   acquaintance with him. And again, at the risk of being\n   thought uncourteous, I must say that you are to a certain\n   degree emancipated by age from that positive subordination\n   to which a few years ago you probably submitted without a\n   question. If a gentleman meets a lady in society, as I met\n   you in the home of our friend Mr. Melmotte, I do not think\n   that the gentleman is to be debarred from expressing his\n   feelings because the lady may possibly have a parent. Your\n   father, no doubt with propriety, had left you to be the\n   guardian of yourself, and I cannot submit to be accused of\n   improper conduct because, finding you in that condition, I\n   availed myself of it.\n\n   And now, having said so much, I must leave the question to\n   be decided entirely by yourself. I beg you to understand\n   that I do not at all wish to hold you to a promise merely\n   because the promise has been given. I readily acknowledge\n   that the opinion of your family should be considered by\n   you, though I will not admit that I was bound to consult\n   that opinion before I spoke to you. It may well be that\n   your regard for me or your appreciation of the comforts\n   with which I may be able to surround you, will not suffice\n   to reconcile you to such a breach from your own family as\n   your father, with much repetition, has assured me will be\n   inevitable. Take a day or two to think of this and turn it\n   well over in your mind. When I last had the happiness of\n   speaking to you, you seemed to think that your parents\n   might raise objections, but that those objections would\n   give way before an expression of your own wishes. I was\n   flattered by your so thinking; but, if I may form any\n   judgment from your father's manner, I must suppose that\n   you were mistaken. You will understand that I do not say\n   this as any reproach to you. Quite the contrary. I think\n   your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to\n   anticipate that he should be so.\n\n   As to my own feelings they remain exactly as they were\n   when I endeavoured to explain them to you. Though I do not\n   find myself to be too old to marry, I do think myself too\n   old to write love letters. I have no doubt you believe me\n   when I say that I entertain a most sincere affection for\n   you; and I beseech you to believe me in saying further\n   that should you become my wife it shall be the study of my\n   life to make you happy.\n\n   It is essentially necessary that I should allude to one\n   other matter, as to which I have already told your father\n   what I will now tell you. I think it probable that within\n   this week I shall find myself a loser of a very large sum\n   of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad\n   treatment of me I will the more readily forgive because\n   he was the means of making me known to you. This you must\n   understand is private between you and me, though I have\n   thought it proper to inform your father. Such loss, if it\n   fall upon me, will not interfere in the least with the\n   income which I have proposed to settle upon you for your\n   use after my death; and, as your father declares that in\n   the event of your marrying me he will neither give to you\n   nor bequeath to you a shilling, he might have abstained\n   from telling me to my face that I was a bankrupt merchant\n   when I myself told him of my loss. I am not a bankrupt\n   merchant nor at all likely to become so. Nor will this\n   loss at all interfere with my present mode of living. But\n   I have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if\n   it occur,--as I think it will,--I shall not deem it right\n   to keep a second establishment probably for the next two\n   or three years. But my house at Fulham and my stables\n   there will be kept up just as they are at present.\n\n   I have now told you everything which I think it is\n   necessary you should know, in order that you may determine\n   either to adhere to or to recede from your engagement.\n   When you have resolved you will let me know,--but a day or\n   two may probably be necessary for your decision. I hope I\n   need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a\n   happy man.\n\n   I am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend,\n\n   EZEKIEL BREHGERT.\n\n\nThis very long letter puzzled Georgey a good deal, and left her, at\nthe time of reading it, very much in doubt as to what she would do.\nShe could understand that it was a plain-spoken and truth-telling\nletter. Not that she, to herself, gave it praise for those virtues;\nbut that it imbued her unconsciously with a thorough belief. She\nwas apt to suspect deceit in other people;--but it did not occur to\nher that Mr. Brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to\ndeceive her. But the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was\naltogether thrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she\nread it, that she might safely trust herself to this man, though he\nwere a Jew, though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and\nwith a family, because he was an honest man. She did not see that the\nletter was particularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be\npained by the total absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first\nallusion to her age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never\nsupposed that Brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was.\nShe was well aware that the world in general attributes more years\nto unmarried women than they have lived, as a sort of equalising\ncounter-weight against the pretences which young women make on the\nother side, or the lies which are told on their behalf. Nor had she\nwished to appear peculiarly young in his eyes. But, nevertheless,\nshe regarded the reference to be uncivil,--perhaps almost\nbutcher-like,--and it had its effect upon her. And then the allusion\nto the \"daughter or daughters\" troubled her. She told herself that it\nwas vulgar,--just what a butcher might have said. And although she\nwas quite prepared to call her father the most irrational, the most\nprejudiced, and most ill-natured of men, yet she was displeased that\nMr. Brehgert should take such a liberty with him. But the passage\nin Mr. Brehgert's letter which was most distasteful to her was that\nwhich told her of the loss which he might probably incur through his\nconnection with Melmotte. What right had he to incur a loss which\nwould incapacitate him from keeping his engagements with her? The\ntown-house had been the great persuasion, and now he absolutely had\nthe face to tell her that there was to be no town-house for three\nyears. When she read this she felt that she ought to be indignant,\nand for a few moments was minded to sit down without further\nconsideration and tell the man with considerable scorn that she would\nhave nothing more to say to him.\n\nBut on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would\nshe have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her\nfather and mother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she\nshould consent to fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of\nGeorge Whitstable! And what would then be left to her in life? This\nepisode of the Jew would make it quite impossible for her again\nto contest the question of the London house with her father. Lady\nPomona and Mrs. George Whitstable would be united with him against\nher. There would be no \"season\" for her, and she would be nobody\nat Caversham. As for London, she would hardly wish to go there!\nEverybody would know the story of the Jew. She thought that she could\nhave plucked up courage to face the world as the Jew's wife, but not\nas the young woman who had wanted to marry the Jew and had failed.\nHow would her future life go with her, should she now make up her\nmind to retire from the proposed alliance? If she could get her\nfather to take her abroad at once, she would do it; but she was not\nnow in a condition to make any terms with her father. As all this\ngradually passed through her mind, she determined that she would so\nfar take Mr. Brehgert's advice as to postpone her answer till she had\nwell considered the matter.\n\nShe slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a few\nquestions. \"Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?\"\n\n\"In what way, my dear?\" Lady Pomona's voice was not gracious, as\nshe was free from that fear of her daughter's ascendancy which had\nformerly affected her.\n\n\"Well;--I suppose he must have some plan.\"\n\n\"You must explain yourself. I don't know why he should have any\nparticular plan.\"\n\n\"Will he go to London next year?\"\n\n\"That will depend upon money, I suppose. What makes you ask?\"\n\n\"Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced. Everybody must\nsee that. I'm sure you do, mamma. The long and the short of it is\nthis;--if I give up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a\nyear?\"\n\n\"Why should he?\"\n\n\"You can't suppose that I should be very comfortable in England. If\nwe are to remain here at Caversham, how am I to hope ever to get\nsettled?\"\n\n\"Sophy is doing very well.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;--thank God.\" She\nhad meant to be humble and supplicating, but she could not restrain\nherself from the use of that one shaft. \"I don't mean but what Sophy\nmay be very happy, and I am sure that I hope she will. But that won't\ndo me any good. I should be very unhappy here.\"\n\n\"I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going\nabroad,\" said Lady Pomona, \"and I don't see why your papa is to be\ntaken away from his own home. He likes Caversham.\"\n\n\"Then I am to be sacrificed on every side,\" said Georgey, stalking\nout of the room. But still she could not make up her mind what letter\nshe would write to Mr. Brehgert, and she slept upon it another night.\n\nOn the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though when\nshe sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind what\nshe would say. But she did get it written, and here it is.\n\n\n   Caversham,\n   Monday.\n\n   MY DEAR MR. BREHGERT,\n\n   As you told me not to hurry, I have taken a little time\n   to think about your letter. Of course it would be very\n   disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and everybody.\n   And if I do do so, I'm sure somebody ought to be very\n   grateful. But papa has been very unfair in what he has\n   said. As to not asking him, it could have been of no good,\n   for of course he would be against it. He thinks a great\n   deal of the Longestaffe family, and so, I suppose, ought\n   I. But the world does change so quick that one doesn't\n   think of anything now as one used to do. Anyway, I don't\n   feel that I'm bound to do what papa tells me just because\n   he says it. Though I'm not quite so old as you seem to\n   think, I'm old enough to judge for myself,--and I mean to\n   do so. You say very little about affection, but I suppose\n   I am to take all that for granted.\n\n   I don't wonder at papa being annoyed about the loss of the\n   money. It must be a very great sum when it will prevent\n   your having a house in London,--as you agreed. It does\n   make a great difference, because, of course, as you have\n   no regular place in the country, one could only see one's\n   friends in London. Fulham is all very well now and then,\n   but I don't think I should like to live at Fulham all the\n   year through. You talk of three years, which would be\n   dreadful. If as you say it will not have any lasting\n   effect, could you not manage to have a house in town? If\n   you can do it in three years, I should think you could do\n   it now. I should like to have an answer to this question.\n   I do think so much about being the season in town!\n\n   As for the other parts of your letter, I knew very well\n   beforehand that papa would be unhappy about it. But I\n   don't know why I'm to let that stand in my way when so\n   very little is done to make me happy. Of course you will\n   write to me again, and I hope you will say something\n   satisfactory about the house in London.\n\n   Yours always sincerely,\n\n   GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.\n\n\nIt probably never occurred to Georgey that Mr. Brehgert would under\nany circumstances be anxious to go back from his engagement. She so\nfully recognised her own value as a Christian lady of high birth and\nposition giving herself to a commercial Jew, that she thought that\nunder any circumstances Mr. Brehgert would be only too anxious to\nstick to his bargain. Nor had she any idea that there was anything\nin her letter which could probably offend him. She thought that she\nmight at any rate make good her claim to the house in London; and\nthat as there were other difficulties on his side, he would yield to\nher on this point. But as yet she hardly knew Mr. Brehgert. He did\nnot lose a day in sending to her a second letter. He took her letter\nwith him to his office in the city, and there answered it without a\nmoment's delay.\n\n\n   No. 7, St. Cuthbert's Court, London,\n   Tuesday, July 16, 18--.\n\n   MY DEAR MISS LONGESTAFFE,\n\n   You say it would be very disagreeable to you to quarrel\n   with your papa and mamma; and as I agree with you, I will\n   take your letter as concluding our intimacy. I should not,\n   however, be dealing quite fairly with you or with myself\n   if I gave you to understand that I felt myself to be\n   coerced to this conclusion simply by your qualified assent\n   to your parents' views. It is evident to me from your\n   letter that you would not wish to be my wife unless I can\n   supply you with a house in town as well as with one in the\n   country. But this for the present is out of my power. I\n   would not have allowed my losses to interfere with your\n   settlement because I had stated a certain income; and\n   must therefore to a certain extent have compromised my\n   children. But I should not have been altogether happy till\n   I had replaced them in their former position, and must\n   therefore have abstained from increased expenditure till\n   I had done so. But of course I have no right to ask you\n   to share with me the discomfort of a single home. I may\n   perhaps add that I had hoped that you would have looked to\n   your happiness to another source, and that I will bear my\n   disappointment as best I may.\n\n   As you may perhaps under these circumstances be unwilling\n   that I should wear the ring you gave me, I return it by\n   post. I trust you will be good enough to keep the trifle\n   you were pleased to accept from me, in remembrance of one\n   who will always wish you well.\n\n   Yours sincerely,\n\n   EZEKIEL BREHGERT.\n\n\nAnd so it was all over! Georgey, when she read this letter, was very\nindignant at her lover's conduct. She did not believe that her own\nletter had at all been of a nature to warrant it. She had regarded\nherself as being quite sure of him, and only so far doubting herself,\nas to be able to make her own terms because of such doubts. And now\nthe Jew had rejected her! She read this last letter over and over\nagain, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart\nof hearts she had intended to marry him. There would have been\ninconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the\nsorrow on the other side. Now she saw nothing before her but a long\nvista of Caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by\nher father and mother, and scorned by Mr. and Mrs. George Whitstable.\n\nShe got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. But what\nvengeance was possible to her? Everybody belonging to her would take\nthe part of the Jew in that which he had now done. She could not ask\nDolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with the\nstern frown of paternal indignation. There could be no revenge. For\na time,--only for a few seconds,--she thought that she would write to\nMr. Brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about\nthis termination of their engagement. This, no doubt, would have been\nan appeal to the Jew for mercy;--and she could not quite descend to\nthat. But she would keep the watch and chain he had given her, and\nwhich somebody had told her had not cost less than a hundred and\nfifty guineas. She could not wear them, as people would know whence\nthey had come; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could\nwear.\n\nAt lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of the\nafternoon she thought it best to inform her mother. \"Mamma,\" she\nsaid, \"as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken off\neverything with Mr. Brehgert.\"\n\n\"Of course it must be broken off,\" said Lady Pomona. This was very\nungracious,--so much so that Georgey almost flounced out of the room.\n\"Have you heard from the man?\" asked her ladyship.\n\n\"I have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all\nsettled. I thought that you would have said something kind to me.\"\nAnd the unfortunate young woman burst out into tears.\n\n\"It was so dreadful,\" said Lady Pomona;--\"so very dreadful. I never\nheard of anything so bad. When young what's-his-name married the\ntallow-chandler's daughter I thought it would have killed me if\nit had been Dolly; but this was worse than that. Her father was a\nmethodist.\"\n\n\"They had neither of them a shilling of money,\" said Georgey through\nher tears.\n\n\"And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. But it's\nall over?\"\n\n\"Yes, mamma.\"\n\n\"And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget\nit. It has been very hard upon George Whitstable, because of course\neverybody has known it through the county. I once thought he would\nhave been off, and I really don't know that we could have said\nanything.\" At that moment Sophy entered the room. \"It's all over\nbetween Georgiana and the--man,\" said Lady Pomona, who hardly saved\nherself from stigmatising him by a further reference to his religion.\n\n\"I knew it would be,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"Of course it could never have really taken place,\" said their\nmother.\n\n\"And now I beg that nothing more may be said about it,\" said\nGeorgiana. \"I suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?\"\n\n\"You must send him back his watch and chain, Georgey,\" said Sophia.\n\n\"What business is that of yours?\"\n\n\"Of course she must. Her papa would not let her keep it.\"\n\nTo such a miserable depth of humility had the younger Miss\nLongestaffe been brought by her ill-considered intimacy with the\nMelmottes! Georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable episode\nin her life, always attributed her grief to the scandalous breach of\ncompact of which her father had been guilty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXX.\n\nRUBY PREPARES FOR SERVICE.\n\n\nOur poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to durance vile\nafter his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was locked up\nfor the remainder of the night. This indignity did not sit so heavily\non his spirits as it might have done on those of a quicker nature.\nHe was aware that he had not killed the baronet, and that he had\ntherefore enjoyed his revenge without the necessity of \"swinging\nfor it at Bury.\" That in itself was a comfort to him. Then it was a\ngreat satisfaction to think that he had \"served the young man out\"\nin the actual presence of his Ruby. He was not prone to give himself\nundue credit for his capability and willingness to knock his enemies\nabout; but he did think that Ruby must have observed on this occasion\nthat he was the better man of the two. And, to John, a night in the\nstation-house was no great personal inconvenience. Though he was\nvery proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very much\nfor such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned. Nor did he\nfeel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. He was very\ngood-humoured with the policeman, who seemed perfectly to understand\nhis nature, and was as meek as a child when the lock was turned\nupon him. As he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself\nwith thinking that Ruby would surely never care any more for the\n\"baronite\" since she had seen him go down like a cur without striking\na blow. He thought a good deal about Ruby, but never attributed any\nblame to her for her share in the evils that had befallen him.\n\nThe next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told at\nan early hour of the day that he was again free. Sir Felix was not\nmuch the worse for what had happened to him, and had refused to make\nany complaint against the man who had beaten him. John Crumb shook\nhands cordially with the policeman who had had him in charge, and\nsuggested beer. The constable, with regrets, was forced to decline,\nand bade adieu to his late prisoner with the expression of a hope\nthat they might meet again before long. \"You come down to Bungay,\"\nsaid John, \"and I'll show you how we live there.\"\n\nFrom the police-office he went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and at\nonce asked for Ruby. He was told that Ruby was out with the children,\nand was advised both by Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle not to present\nhimself before Ruby quite yet. \"You see,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, \"she's a\nthinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman.\"\n\n\"But I wasn't;--not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the\nwuss.\"\n\n\"You let her alone for a time,\" said Mrs. Hurtle. \"A little neglect\nwill do her good.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" said John,--\"only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'll\nlet her have her wittles regular, Mrs. Pipkin.\"\n\nIt was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should not\nextend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving\nan assurance from Mrs. Hurtle that he should be summoned to town\nas soon as it was thought that his presence there would serve his\npurposes; and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly\nwomen that as soon as ever a \"line should be dropped\" he would appear\nagain upon the scene, he took Mrs. Pipkin aside, and suggested that\nif there were \"any hextras,\" he was ready to pay for them. Then he\ntook his leave without seeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay.\n\nWhen Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb had\ncalled. \"I thought as he was in prison,\" said Ruby.\n\n\"What should they keep him in prison for?\" said Mrs. Pipkin. \"He\nhasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was\ndragging you about as far as I can make out, and Mr. Crumb just did\nas anybody ought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't\ngoing to keep him in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as\nought to be in prison.\"\n\n\"And where is he now, aunt?\"\n\n\"Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here\nany more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's\nworth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby.\"\n\n\"John Crumb 'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him\nencouragement,\" said Ruby. \"If I'd hold up my finger he'd come.\"\n\n\"Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you\ngo about your work.\" Ruby didn't like to be told to go about her\nwork, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded\nthe servant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do with\nherself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to her\nafter the treatment he had received;--and a further idea that if he\ndid come he was not, as she phrased it to herself, \"of much account.\"\nShe certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten,\nthough, at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. She did\nnot believe that she would ever dance with him again. That had been\nthe charm of her life in London, and that was now all over. And as\nfor marrying her,--she began to feel certain that he did not intend\nit. John Crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with\nwhom Ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love\nand John Crumb were poles asunder. But--! Ruby did not like wheeling\nthe perambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin\nto go about her work. What Ruby did like was being in love and\ndancing; but if all that must come to an end, then there would be a\nquestion whether she could not do better for herself, than by staying\nwith her aunt and wheeling the perambulator about Islington.\n\nMrs. Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and having\nbut little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to the\ninterest of John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymen\nshe had never seen. \"I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his\nhead,\" she had said to Mrs. Pipkin. Mrs. Pipkin had replied that Mr.\nCrumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. Mrs.\nHurtle had smiled, thinking that Mrs. Pipkin was also very unlike\nher own countrywomen. But she was very kind to Mrs. Pipkin, ordering\nrice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she\nwas quite determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.\n\nIn order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs. Pipkin into\nconfidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to Ruby. Mrs.\nPipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan was\naltogether Mrs. Hurtle's plan. On the day following John's return\nto Bungay Mrs. Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and thus\naddressed her. \"Ruby, you know, this must come to an end now.\"\n\n\"What must come to an end?\"\n\n\"You can't stay here always, you know.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages.\"\n\n\"I can't do with more than one girl,--and there's the keep if there\nisn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't\nhave you back there; that's certain.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so.\"\n\n\"But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here\nalways,--nor I couldn't have you. You must go into service.\"\n\n\"I don't know anybody as 'd have me,\" said Ruby.\n\n\"You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say as\nnursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give\nyou a character;--only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask\nmuch wages just at first.\" Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears\nwere near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall\nwas so startling and so oppressive! \"It has got to be done sooner or\nlater, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon.\"\n\n\"You're going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin.\"\n\n\"Well;--if that's turning out, I am. You see you never would be\nsaid by me as though I was mistress. You would go out with that\nrapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place\nlike, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for\nyou. You've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it.\nYou must earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your\nlover and with your grandfather.\"\n\nThere was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessary\nnotice was put into the paper,--Mrs. Hurtle paying for its insertion.\n\"Because, you know,\" said Mrs. Hurtle, \"she must stay here really,\ntill Mr. Crumb comes and takes her away.\" Mrs. Pipkin expressed\nher opinion that Ruby was a \"baggage\" and John Crumb a \"soft.\" Mrs.\nPipkin was perhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger\ntook in her niece, thinking perhaps that all Mrs. Hurtle's sympathies\nwere due to herself.\n\nRuby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the\nmothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The answers which she had\nreceived had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy,\nand the houses which she visited did not appal her by their\nsplendour. Many objections were made to her. A character from an aunt\nwas objectionable. Her ringlets were objectionable. She was a deal\ntoo flighty-looking. She spoke up much too free. At last one happy\nmother of five children offered to take her on approval for a month,\nat £12 a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This\nwas slavery;--abject slavery. And she too, who had been the beloved\nof a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better\nhouse than that into which she was to go as a servant,--if she\nwould only hold up her finger! But the place was accepted, and with\nbroken-hearted sobbings Ruby prepared herself for her departure from\naunt Pipkin's roof.\n\n\"I hope you like your place, Ruby,\" Mrs. Hurtle said on the afternoon\nof her last day.\n\n\"Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you\never see, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones.\"\n\n\"And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross.\"\n\n\"It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?\"\n\n\"I don't know as I've done anything out of the way.\"\n\n\"Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a\nyoung man and then to throw him over? All this has come because you\nwouldn't keep your word to Mr. Crumb. Only for that your grandfather\nwouldn't have turned you out of his house.\"\n\n\"He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John\nCrumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my\nhead.\"\n\n\"But he was angry with you about Mr. Crumb. When a young woman\nbecomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her\nword.\" No doubt Mrs. Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought\nthat the same law might be laid down with propriety for the conduct\nof young men. \"Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am\nsorry that you don't like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it\nnow.\"\n\n\"I am agoing,--I suppose,\" said Ruby, probably feeling that if she\ncould but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be open\nfor her a way of escape.\n\n\"I shall write and tell Mr. Crumb where you are placed.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain't\nnothing to him.\"\n\n\"I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken.\"\n\n\"You can forget that, Mrs. Hurtle. Pray don't write. I don't want him\nto know as I'm in service.\"\n\n\"I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose you\ncare much now what he hears about you.\"\n\n\"Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him to\nknow.\"\n\n\"What harm can it do you?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want him to know. It is such a come down, Mrs.\nHurtle.\"\n\n\"There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to be\nashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do;--wasn't it,\nRuby?\"\n\n\"I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs. Hurtle; only why couldn't he say\nwhat he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for\nhim? What would you feel, Mrs. Hurtle, if a man was to come and say\nit all out of another man's mouth?\"\n\n\"I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last.\nYou know he meant it.\"\n\n\"Yes;--I did know that.\"\n\n\"And you know he means it now?\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure about that. He's gone back to Bungay, and he isn't\nno good at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh,--he'll go\nand get somebody else now.\"\n\n\"Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better\ntell him. I know what would happen.\"\n\n\"What would happen, Mrs. Hurtle?\"\n\n\"He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a\nplace you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll\nsay the word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs.\nBuggins'.\" Ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at Mrs.\nHurtle. \"I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you\ndid before.\"\n\n\"But I'm to go to Mrs. Buggins' to-morrow.\"\n\n\"We'll send to Mrs. Buggins and tell her to get somebody else. You're\nbreaking your heart about going there;--are you not?\"\n\n\"I don't like it, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn't\ngood at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester man\nin the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a\nwoman better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart\nwith it? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real\nmetal isn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you\ndon't think now he was a very fine fellow.\"\n\n\"He was so beautiful, Mrs. Hurtle!\"\n\n\"But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. Well, Ruby,\nyou have one more choice left you. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs.\nBuggins?\"\n\n\"He wouldn't come, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"Leave that to me, Ruby. May I bring him if I can?\" Then Ruby in a\nvery low whisper told Mrs. Hurtle, that if she thought proper she\nmight bring John Crumb back again. \"And there shall be no more\nnonsense?\"\n\n\"No,\" whispered Ruby.\n\nOn that same night a letter was sent to Mrs. Buggins, which\nMrs. Hurtle also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen\ncircumstances prevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement she\nhad made; to which a verbal answer was returned that Ruby Ruggles\nwas an impudent hussey. And then Mrs. Hurtle in her own name wrote a\nshort note to Mr. John Crumb.\n\n\n   DEAR MR. CRUMB,\n\n   If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss\n   Ruby Ruggles all that you desire.\n\n   Yours faithfully,\n\n   WINIFRID HURTLE.\n\n\n\"She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done for\nyoung women in my time,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, \"and I'm not at all so\nsure that she has deserved it.\"\n\n\"John Crumb will think she has.\"\n\n\"John Crumb's a fool;--and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no\npatience with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for\nyou, Mrs. Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I\nhope, Mrs. Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is\nall done.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXI.\n\nMR. COHENLUPE LEAVES LONDON.\n\n\nDolly Longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to Fetter Lane\nimmediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he had\nconsented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. This\nwas on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being Friday.\nHe had undertaken that, on his part, Squercum should be made to\ndesist from further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry\nout his word by visiting Squercum. The trouble to him was very\ngreat, but he began to feel that he almost liked it. The excitement\nwas nearly as good as that of loo. Of course it was a \"horrid\nbore,\"--this having to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a\nLondon July day. Of course it was a \"horrid bore,\"--this doubt about\nhis money. And it went altogether against the grain with him that\nhe should be engaged in any matter respecting the family property\nin agreement with his father and Mr. Bideawhile. But there was an\nimportance in it that sustained him amidst his troubles. It is said\nthat if you were to take a man of moderate parts and make him Prime\nMinister out of hand, he might probably do as well as other Prime\nMinisters, the greatness of the work elevating the man to its own\nlevel. In that way Dolly was elevated to the level of a man of\nbusiness, and felt and enjoyed his own capacity. \"By George!\" It\ndepended chiefly upon him whether such a man as Melmotte should or\nshould not be charged before the Lord Mayor. \"Perhaps I oughtn't to\nhave promised,\" he said to Squercum, sitting in the lawyer's office\non a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth. He preferred\nSquercum to any other lawyer he had met because Squercum's room was\nuntidy and homely, because there was nothing awful about it, and\nbecause he could sit in what position he pleased, and smoke all the\ntime.\n\n\"Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me,\" said Squercum.\n\n\"You weren't there to be asked, old fellow.\"\n\n\"Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my\nabsence,\" said Squercum indignantly. \"It was a very unprofessional\nthing on his part, and so I shall take an opportunity of telling\nhim.\"\n\n\"It was you told me to go.\"\n\n\"Well;--yes. I wanted you to see what they were at in that room; but\nI told you to look on and say nothing.\"\n\n\"I didn't speak half-a-dozen words.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't have spoken those words. Your father then is quite\nclear that you did not sign the letter?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes;--the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest.\"\n\n\"That's a matter of course,\" said the lawyer. \"All men are\nhonest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side.\nBideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to\nprevent his getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay\nthe money on Friday, has he?\"\n\n\"He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street.\"\n\n\"I don't believe a word of it;--and I'm sure Bideawhile doesn't. In\nwhat shape will he bring it? He'll give you a cheque dated on Monday,\nand that'll give him two days more, and then on Monday there'll be a\nnote to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should\nbe no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into\nanother. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything.\"\n\n\"I suppose we can't help ourselves now. You're to be there on Friday.\nI particularly bargained for that. If you're there, there won't be\nany more compromising.\"\n\nSquercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all\nflattering to Dolly's vanity,--which might have caused offence had\nnot there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and\nthe young man. As it was Dolly replied to everything that was said\nwith increased flattery. \"If I was a sharp fellow like you, you\nknow,\" said Dolly, \"of course I should get along better; but I ain't,\nyou know.\" It was then settled that they should meet each other, and\nalso meet Mr. Longestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve\no'clock on Friday morning in Bruton Street.\n\nSquercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in this\nmatter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got\nto the bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and had\nmanaged to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ\nhim. As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject.\nOld Longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by\nthe bribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and\nMexican Railway to give up the title-deeds of the property,--as far\nas it was in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce\nDolly to do so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his\nwork by ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was\nperfectly clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a\nmost attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It\nwas pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. He\nregarded Melmotte as a grand swindler,--perhaps the grandest that the\nworld had ever known,--and he could conceive no greater honour than\nthe detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of\nso great a man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as\ngreat almost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been\nunfairly hampered by his own client. He did not believe that the\nmoney would be paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had\nheard a good many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out\nof the question that Melmotte should raise the money,--but there were\nvarious ways in which a man might escape.\n\nIt may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded Melmotte\ninto the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to sign the deeds.\nHe, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that things were not\nlooking as well as they used to look. Croll had for many years been\ntrue to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for\nsuch truth. There had been times when things had gone badly with him,\nbut he had believed in Melmotte, and, when Melmotte rose, had been\nrewarded for his faith. Mr. Croll at the present time had little\ninvestments of his own, not made under his employer's auspices, which\nwould leave him not absolutely without bread for his family should\nthe Melmotte affairs at any time take an awkward turn. Melmotte had\nnever required from him service that was actually fraudulent,--had\nat any rate never required it by spoken words. Mr. Croll had not\nbeen over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to Mr.\nMelmotte. But there must be a limit to all things; and why should any\nman sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling house,--when\nconvinced that nothing he can do can prevent the fall? Mr. Croll\nwould have been of course happy to witness Miss Melmotte's signature;\nbut as for that other kind of witnessing,--this clearly to his\nthinking was not the time for such good-nature on his part.\n\n\"You know what's up now;--don't you?\" said one of the junior clerks\nto Mr. Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane.\n\n\"A good deal will be up soon,\" said the German.\n\n\"Cohenlupe has gone!\"\n\n\"And to vere has Mr. Cohenlupe gone?\"\n\n\"He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don't\nwant his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him.\nNobody seems to know what's become of him.\"\n\n\"New York,\" suggested Mr. Croll.\n\n\"They seem to think not. They're too hospitable in New York for Mr.\nCohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on the\ncontinent somewhere,--half across France by this time; but nobody\nknows what route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the\nold boy;--eh, Croll?\" Croll merely shook his head. \"I wonder what has\nbecome of Miles Grendall,\" continued the clerk.\n\n\"Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to\nstay.\"\n\n\"There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway\nscrip.\"\n\n\"Our governor knew noding about dat,\" said Croll.\n\n\"He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been kept\nup another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly\na million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the\nbank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayor\nabout the Pickering title-deeds?\" Croll declared that he knew nothing\nabout the matter, and settled himself down to his work.\n\nIn little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who thus\nreached the City late in the afternoon. It was he knew too late to\nraise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the way\nfor getting it on the next day, which would be Thursday. Of course\nthe first news which he heard was of the defection of Mr. Cohenlupe.\nIt was Croll who told him. He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at\nfirst he said nothing. \"It's a bad thing,\" said Mr. Croll.\n\n\"Yes;--it is bad. He had a vast amount of my property in his hands.\nWhere has he gone?\" Croll shook his head. \"It never rains but it\npours,\" said Melmotte. \"Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been\nworse than I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred\nthousand pounds at my banker's,--loose cash,--before the month was\nout.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Croll.\n\n\"But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably\njealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men\nwill say that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster\nthere has been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that\naffair of the dinner was planned,--planned by G----, that it might\nruin me. It was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of\na building. It is hard for one man to stand against all that when he\nhas dealings so large as mine.\"\n\n\"Very hard, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the real\nstuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing that\ncomes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if the\nstuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose I\nshall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court.\"\n\n\"I should say so, Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Brehgert never leaves much before\nsix.\"\n\nThen Mr. Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he\nusually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in its\nusually jaunty air. But Croll as he went heard him mutter the name of\nCohenlupe between his teeth. The part which he had to act is one very\ndifficult to any actor. The carrying an external look of indifference\nwhen the heart is sinking within,--or has sunk almost to the very\nground,--is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. In all\nmental suffering the sufferer longs for solitude,--for permission to\ncast himself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every\nfeature of his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. A grandly\nurbane deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond\nthe physical strength of most men;--but there have been men so\nstrong. Melmotte very nearly accomplished it. It was only to the eyes\nof such a one as Herr Croll that the failure was perceptible.\n\nMelmotte did find Mr. Brehgert. At this time Mr. Brehgert had\ncompleted his correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he\nhad mentioned the probability of great losses from the anticipated\ncommercial failure in Mr. Melmotte's affairs. He had now heard that\nMr. Cohenlupe had gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly\nsure that his anticipation would be correct. Nevertheless, he\nreceived his old friend with a smile. When large sums of money are\nconcerned there is seldom much of personal indignation between man\nand man. The loss of fifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create\npersonal wrath;--but fifty thousand require equanimity. \"So Cohenlupe\nhasn't been seen in the City to-day,\" said Brehgert.\n\n\"He has gone,\" said Melmotte hoarsely.\n\n\"I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for large\ndealings.\"\n\n\"Yes, you did,\" said Melmotte.\n\n\"Well;--it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?\" Then\nMelmotte explained to Mr. Brehgert what it was that he wanted then,\ntaking the various documents out of the bag which throughout the\nafternoon he had carried in his hand. Mr. Brehgert understood enough\nof his friend's affairs, and enough of affairs in general, to\nunderstand readily all that was required. He examined the documents,\ndeclaring as he did so that he did not know how the thing could be\narranged by Friday. Melmotte replied that £50,000 was not a very\nlarge sum of money, that the security offered was worth twice as much\nas that. \"You will leave them with me this evening,\" said Brehgert.\nMelmotte paused for a moment, and said that he would of course do so.\nHe would have given much, very much, to have been sufficiently master\nof himself to have assented without hesitation;--but then the weight\nwithin was so very heavy!\n\nHaving left the papers and the bag with Mr. Brehgert, he walked\nwestwards to the House of Commons. He was accustomed to remain in the\nCity later than this, often not leaving it till seven,--though during\nthe last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the House\nin the afternoon. It was now Wednesday, and there was no evening\nsitting;--but his mind was too full of other things to allow him to\nremember this. As he walked along the Embankment, his thoughts were\nvery heavy. How would things go with him?--What would be the end of\nit? Ruin;--yes, but there were worse things than ruin. And a short\ntime since he had been so fortunate;--had made himself so safe! As\nhe looked back at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass\nthat he had been driven out of the track that he had laid down for\nhimself. He had known that ruin would come, and had made himself so\ncomfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. But insane\nambition had driven him away from his anchorage. He told himself over\nand over again that the fault had been not in circumstances,--not\nin that which men call Fortune,--but in his own incapacity to bear\nhis position. He saw it now. He felt it now. If he could only begin\nagain, how different would his conduct be!\n\nBut of what avail were such regrets as these? He must take things as\nthey were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himself\nto be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. And if the worst\nshould come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! There was\na certain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly\nin his own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at\nthis time. Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside\nhimself and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to\nhimself his own shortcomings. If it were all to be done again he\nthought that he could avoid this bump against the rocks on one side,\nand that terribly shattering blow on the other. There was much that\nhe was ashamed of,--many a little act which recurred to him vividly\nin this solitary hour as a thing to be repented of with inner\nsackcloth and ashes. But never once, not for a moment, did it occur\nto him that he should repent of the fraud in which his whole life had\nbeen passed. No idea ever crossed his mind of what might have been\nthe result had he lived the life of an honest man. Though he was\ninquiring into himself as closely as he could, he never even told\nhimself that he had been dishonest. Fraud and dishonesty had been the\nvery principle of his life, and had so become a part of his blood and\nbones that even in this extremity of his misery he made no question\nwithin himself as to his right judgment in regard to them. Not\nto cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live more luxuriously\nthan others by cheating more brilliantly, was a condition of\nthings to which his mind had never turned itself. In that respect\nhe accused himself of no want of judgment. But why had he, so\nunrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon of\nunrighteousness? Why had he not conciliated Lord Mayors? Why had\nhe trod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? Why had he been\ninsolent at the India Office? Why had he trusted any man as he had\ntrusted Cohenlupe? Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead of\ngoing into Parliament? Why had he called down unnecessary notice on\nhis head by entertaining the Emperor of China? It was too late now,\nand he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him.\n\nHe walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of Westminster\nAbbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. \"Oh,\nWednesday! Of course it is,\" he said, turning round and directing\nhis steps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the\nmorning he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did\nnot know what better use to make of the present evening. His house\ncould hardly be very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep\nout of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from\nhis wife's company. But in his own house he could at least be alone.\nThen, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on\nmatters as hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no,\nhe asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep\nthe money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes\nthat he could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr.\nSquercum could do to him,--for he knew already how busy Mr. Squercum\nwas in the matter. Though they should put him on his trial for\nforgery, what of that? He had heard of trials in which the accused\ncriminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were in\nprogress,--who had been fêted from the beginning to the end though\nno one had doubted their guilt,--and who had come out unscathed at\nthe last. What evidence had they against him? It might be that the\nLongestaffes and Bideawhiles and Squercums should know that he was\na forger, but their knowledge would not produce a verdict. He, as\nmember for Westminster, as the man who had entertained the Emperor,\nas the owner of one of the most gorgeous houses in London, as the\ngreat Melmotte, could certainly command the best half of the bar.\nHe already felt what popular support might do for him. Surely there\nneed be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him! He did\ntremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter\nof the old man who was dead. And he knew that it was possible that\nother things might be adduced; but would it not be better to face it\nall than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing, as he did\nvery clearly, that even by such surrender he could not cleanse his\ncharacter?\n\nBut he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr.\nBrehgert! Again he had acted in a hurry,--without giving sufficient\nthought to the matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that\nalso. But how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs\nwhen no step that he takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;--he had\ncertainly put into Brehgert's hands means of proving him to have\nbeen absolutely guilty of forgery. He did not think that Marie would\ndisclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the\ndeeds, when she should understand that her father had written her\nname; nor did he think that his clerk would be urgent against him,\nas the forgery of Croll's name could not injure Croll. But Brehgert,\nshould he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him\nto escape. And now he had put these forgeries without any guard into\nBrehgert's hands.\n\nHe would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind.\nHe would see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on the\ndocuments, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then he\nwould instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper\nthat should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Having\ndone that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him\nto gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could not\nbe admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all\nthat. If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that\nan end might come. But how great was the chance that they might\nfail to convict him! As to the dead man's letter, and as to Dolly\nLongestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence\ncould be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was to\nhave released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed\nthat he might still recover those documents. For the present it\nmust be his duty to do nothing,--when he should have recovered and\ndestroyed those documents,--and to live before the eyes of men as\nthough he feared nothing.\n\nHe dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully\nwent through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes\nof those ministers of the law who would probably before long have\nthe privilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thus\nemployed, he drank a bottle of champagne,--feeling himself greatly\ncomforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and look\nmen in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all.\nHow much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once been\nimprisoned for fraud at Hamburgh, and had come out of gaol a pauper;\nfriendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he was\na member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of\nperhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an\nestablished character for high finance,--a commercial giant whose\nname was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres.\nEven though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he\nwould not all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte\nmight be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.\n\nIn ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every one\nconnected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of\nawe,--every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times been\nhimself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife\nobeyed him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came\nin now and stood opposite to him, while he spoke to her. She never\nsat in his presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie\nkept their jewelry;--for during the last twelvemonths rich trinkets\nhad been supplied to both of them. Of course she answered by another\nquestion. \"Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?\"\n\n\"A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or in\nGrosvenor Square?\"\n\n\"They are here.\"\n\n\"Then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about\nwool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if\nyou have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes; I understand.\"\n\n\"Why don't you speak, then?\"\n\n\"What is going to happen, Melmotte?\"\n\n\"How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's\nwork is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough.\nNothing can hurt you.\"\n\n\"Can they hurt you, Melmotte?\"\n\n\"Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be\nborne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft\nall my life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft\nnow.\"\n\n\"Shall we have to move?\"\n\n\"Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving as\nthough that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you\nlike to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?\"\n\n\"Are they going to send you to prison?\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Melmotte;--are they going to?\" Then the poor woman did sit\ndown, overcome by her feelings.\n\n\"I didn't ask you to come here for a scene,\" said Melmotte. \"Do as I\nbid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them\nin small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last\nmoment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't\nstay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I\nshan't answer them.\" So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again,\nand immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her\nornaments.\n\nMelmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes\nsipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work,\nand hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXII.\n\nMARIE'S PERSEVERANCE.\n\n\nVery early the next morning, very early that is for London life,\nMelmotte was told by a servant that Mr. Croll had called and wanted\nto see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether\nhe wanted to see Croll. \"Is it anything special?\" he asked. The\nman thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared\nhis purpose of waiting when told that Mr. Melmotte was not as yet\ndressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte\nlonged to know every detail of Croll's manner,--to know even the\nservant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to ask\na question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious.\n\"Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in\nthe study.\" But Mr. Croll had breakfasted and declined any further\nrefreshment.\n\nNevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would\nmeet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well\nthat he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding\nhim wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will,\nthe question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he\ndiscussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he\ncould not fly. And if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he\nwould do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man\ncome with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner\nor later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not Croll\nas well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with a\nrazor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an\nend to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be\nshown up into his room.\n\nThe three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very\nlong. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was\nstill upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was\nfighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When\nthe knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though\nto support himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in,\nand Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly.\nMelmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession\nof Mr. Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the\nbag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the\nbag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in\nhis own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been\nforged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll\nshould be ignorant of what had been done. \"Well, Croll,\" he said\nwith an attempt at a smile, \"what brings you here so early?\" He was\npale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain\nhimself from trembling.\n\n\"Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night,\" said Croll.\n\n\"Eh!\"\n\n\"And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all.\"\nCroll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's\nface, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"He thought I had better bring these back to you.\"]\n\n\n\"Eh!\" repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from\nall coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not\nassume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen\nCroll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered\nthe forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged\ndocuments. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the\nmost good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature\nsuch as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.\n\n\"Mr. Brehgert came to me,\" continued Croll, \"because one signature\nwas wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said\nI'd bring them to you in the morning.\"\n\nThey both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll;\nbut how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends had\nresolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired\nto get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were!\nMelmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking\nin a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him\nin forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to\nsuch an occasion. \"It vas a strong order, Mr. Melmotte,\" said Croll.\nMelmotte tried to smile but only grinned. \"I vill not be back in the\nLane, Mr. Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Not back at the office, Croll?\"\n\n\"I tink not;--no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it.\nAdieu.\" And so Mr. Croll took his final leave of his old master after\nan intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that\nHerr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for\nbusiness to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by\nhis patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely\nremarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was\na \"strong order.\"\n\nMelmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It\nhad been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen\ntimes, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It\nhad been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but\nhere the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written\nfive times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again\nhe had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his\nown carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool\nmight do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and\nwide awake at every turn!\n\nMelmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and\nnow he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew\nthe crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps\nagainst him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own\nhands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there\nshould arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make\nmoney by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll\nhad signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would\ntherefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy\nto his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep\nthe secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would\ncurry favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.\n\nBut what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was\nhis own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been\nhis own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of\npeculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of\nwhat he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the\nknowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be\nsuppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little\nbag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his\nbreakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.\n\nWhen this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he\nwould pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money\nfor Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he\nwould explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that\na little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not\nexactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he\nhad resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone\nsince he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on\nCohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one\nmerchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the\nburden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into\nthe City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of\ncertainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security\ncould hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do.\nCohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could\nhardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr. Brehgert! He would stay\nat home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then\nhe would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and\nstand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in\nthe lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and,\nif it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He\nwas about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he\nhad fallen like a man.\n\nAbout eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It\ncan hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps\nshe was the only person who in the whole course of his career had\nreceived indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had\nalso often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of\nhis opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now\nshe had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on\nher part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been\ndetected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had\ncause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had\nat any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of\nits occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be\nmade, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.\n\n\"Papa,\" she said, coming very gently into the room, \"I think that\nperhaps I was wrong yesterday.\"\n\n\"Of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now.\"\n\n\"If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord\nNidderdale means to come any more;--and I'm sure I don't care whether\nhe does or not.\"\n\n\"What makes you think that, Marie?\"\n\n\"I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there.\nI'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more.\"\n\n\"Was he uncivil to you?\"\n\n\"O dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how.\nI never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him.\nPapa, is there something going to happen?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other\nman?\"\n\n\"He is a penniless adventurer.\"\n\n\"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then\nthere would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me\nstill if you would let him.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?\"\n\n\"Never, papa.\"\n\n\"Or heard from him?\"\n\n\"Not a line.\"\n\n\"Then what makes you think he would marry you?\"\n\n\"He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And\nthere would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live\nin Germany.\"\n\n\"We could do that just as well without your marrying.\"\n\n\"But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want\nafter all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up\ntheir noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you.\"\n\n\"He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's\nanything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand.\nHe's as good as anybody else.\"\n\n\"It can't be done, Marie.\"\n\n\"Why can't it be done?\"\n\n\"There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him?\nAnd it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than\nmarriage.\"\n\n\"You don't want me to sign the papers?\"\n\n\"No;--I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the\nmoney is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you,\nand that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not\nlet me find myself deceived by my daughter.\"\n\n\"I won't,--if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more.\"\n\nThen the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry.\n\"I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why\ncannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your\njewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your\nhand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of\nthat young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very\ngood, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I\nbid you.\"\n\nThat afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and\ntold her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see\nSir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's\nhouse had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously\ntaken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his\nhands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from\nhis face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion\nwith which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted\nwhen they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry\nquestions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she\nhad heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special\ndescription, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil.\nLady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her\nown presence,--and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. \"I dare\nsay you don't remember me, Lady Carbury,\" Marie said. \"I am Marie\nMelmotte.\"\n\nAt first Lady Carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so\nbefore she replied. \"Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.\"\n\n\"Yes;--I am Mr. Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is\nbetter. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in\nthe street.\"\n\n\"Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.\" Now Lady Carbury\nhad heard within the last two days from Mr. Broune that \"it was all\nover\" with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his\nthorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries,\nthat his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a\nruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the\nvery point of bursting. \"Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before\na week is over.\" That was the information which had reached Lady\nCarbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.\n\n\"I want to see him,\" said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what\nanswer to make, was silent for a while. \"I suppose he told you\neverything;--didn't he? You know that we were to have been married?\nI loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming\nand telling you.\"\n\n\"I thought it was all off,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was\nvery good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but\nperhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true.\"\n\nLady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at\nthe moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was\nruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with\na considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit\neither for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to\nanswer her roughly. \"I am afraid,\" she said, \"that it would not be\nsuitable.\"\n\n\"Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There\nis enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but\nit is mine. It is ever so much;--I don't know how much, but a great\ndeal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come\nand tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I\nshould have thought it would be suitable.\"\n\nIt then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage\nafter all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it\nwas true? \"I understand that your papa is opposed to it,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give\nup the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can\ndare to do it, why can't he?\"\n\nLady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it\nimpossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she\nshould see Mr. Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him,\nin what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she\nmight not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her\nlife, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not\nonly willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to\nendow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. If\nthe thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand\na year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix\nhad already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not\nbe justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because\nthe Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in\nwhich he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a\nheaven-sent comfort. \"My son is up-stairs,\" she said. \"I will go up\nand speak to him.\"\n\n\"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him\neverything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to\nme, I will be true to him.\"\n\n\"I couldn't go down to her,\" said Sir Felix, \"with my face all in\nthis way.\"\n\n\"I don't think she would mind that.\"\n\n\"I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never\ndid believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to\nLiverpool.\"\n\n\"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to\na certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is\nvery fond of you.\"\n\n\"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?\" He would not go down to\nsee the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and\nwas ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As\nregarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's\nstory. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach,\nwould be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the\nnuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss\nhis future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?\n\n\"What shall I say to her?\" asked his mother.\n\n\"She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might\nsend the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again.\"\n\nBut Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She\nreturned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and\nthinking what answer she would make. \"Miss Melmotte,\" she said, \"my\nson feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last\nmet, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance.\"\n\n\"That is his message;--is it?\" Lady Carbury remained silent. \"Then he\nis indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should\nhave loved him. I am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will\nthink that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not\nrun after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed\nof thinking so much of so mean a person. Good-bye, Lady Carbury.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me.\"\n\n\"No;--no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as\nyou please, and I will try to forget him.\"\n\nThen with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going\nround by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way.\nWhat should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she\nendeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the\nlast year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship\nwhich she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The\nservitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by\nintercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In\nthese days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and\nseen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords,\nshe had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She\nhad really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made\nof the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the\nclay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away\nfrom her and had refused her love!\n\nShe was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her\nfather. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious\nof their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They\nwould again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other\ncity,--probably in some very distant part. But go where she might,\nshe would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she\nsucceeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton\nStreet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIII.\n\nMELMOTTE AGAIN AT THE HOUSE.\n\n\nOn that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there was to\nbe a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs. As soon as Cohenlupe\nhad gone, no man doubted. The City men who had not gone to the dinner\nprided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians\nwho had declined to meet the Emperor of China at the table of the\nsuspected Financier. They who had got up the dinner and had been\ninstrumental in taking the Emperor to the house in Grosvenor Square,\nand they also who had brought him forward at Westminster and had\nfought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defend\nthemselves against heavy attacks. No one now had a word to say in\nhis favour, or a doubt as to his guilt. The Grendalls had retired\naltogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. Lord Alfred\nhad not been seen since the day of the dinner. The Duchess of Albury,\ntoo, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, as\nthe world said, by the general Melmotte failure. But this departure\nhad not as yet taken place at the time at which we have now arrived.\n\nWhen the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four o'clock,\nthere were a great many members present, and a general feeling\nprevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because\nof Melmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted\nthroughout the morning that he would be put upon his trial for\nforgery in reference to the purchase of the Pickering property from\nMr. Longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown\nhimself anywhere on this day. People had gone to look at the house\nin Grosvenor Square,--not knowing that he was still living in Mr.\nLongestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with the\nimpression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainly\nto be seen upon it. \"I wonder where he is,\" said Mr. Lupton to Mr.\nBeauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House.\n\n\"They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in\nLongestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. The\nman has got his place in the country and his house in town. There's\nNidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all.\"\n\n\"This is awful;--ain't it?\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are\nconcerned,\" replied Mr. Lupton.\n\n\"Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understand\nit all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was\ncertainly there.\"\n\n\"And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago,\" said Lupton;--\"but\nhe isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in time\nfor you.\" Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very\ngrave.\n\n\"There's Brown,\" said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to the\ncommercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr. Melmotte on a\nprevious occasion had been anxious to correct. \"He'll be able to tell\nus where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was\noff to the continent after Cohenlupe.\" But Mr. Brown shook his head.\nMr. Brown didn't know anything. But Mr. Brown was very strongly of\nopinion that the police would know all that there was to be known\nabout Mr. Melmotte before this time on the following day. Mr. Brown\nhad been very bitter against Melmotte since that memorable attack\nmade upon him in the House.\n\nEven ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary\nquestion-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than\nupon their own defence. \"Do you know anything about it?\" asked the\nChancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for the Home\nDepartment.\n\n\"I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is\na general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whether\nthey've got their evidence together.\"\n\n\"He's a ruined man, I suppose,\" said the Chancellor.\n\n\"I doubt whether he ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;--he\nhas been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent\nover a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his\npersonal expenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he\nlearns the truth.\" Another minister sitting close to the Secretary of\nState was of opinion that the Emperor of China would not care half so\nmuch about it as our own First Lord of the Treasury.\n\nAt this moment there came a silence over the House which was almost\naudible. They who know the sensation which arises from the continued\nhum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the\near is the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound.\nEverybody looked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. An\nUnder-Secretary of State had just got upon his legs to answer a most\nindignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings\nof a certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was so\nhappy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. It is not\noften that such a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and\nhe was intent upon his performance. But even he was startled into\nmomentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. Augustus Melmotte, the\nmember for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.\n\nHe had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of\nthe House as to know what to do with his hat,--when to wear it, and\nwhen to take it off,--and how to sit down. As he entered by the door\nfacing the Speaker, he wore his hat on one side of his head, as was\nhis custom. Much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from\nthis habit, which had been adopted probably from a conviction that it\nadded something to his powers of self-assertion. At this moment he\nwas more determined than ever that no one should trace in his outer\ngait or in any feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as\nhe well knew, all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat\nwas a little more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were\nthrown back a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which\nhe wore in his shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and\nchin was specially conspicuous. He had come down in his brougham, and\nas he had walked up Westminster Hall and entered the House by the\nprivate door of the members, and then made his way in across the\ngreat lobby and between the doorkeepers,--no one had spoken a word\nto him. He had of course seen many whom he had known. He had indeed\nknown nearly all whom he had seen;--but he had been aware, from the\nbeginning of this enterprise of the day, that men would shun him, and\nthat he must bear their cold looks and colder silence without seeming\nto notice them. He had schooled himself to the task, and he was now\nperforming it. It was not only that he would have to move among men\nwithout being noticed, but that he must endure to pass the whole\nevening in the same plight. But he was resolved, and he was now doing\nit. He bowed to the Speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising\nhis hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual,\non the third opposition-bench, but with more than his usual fling.\nHe was a big man, who always endeavoured to make an effect by\ndeportment, and was therefore customarily conspicuous in his\nmovements. He was desirous now of being as he was always, neither\nmore nor less demonstrative;--but, as a matter of course, he\nexceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that there was a\nspecial impudence in the manner in which he walked up the House and\ntook his seat. The Under-Secretary of State, who was on his legs, was\nstruck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facings was lost\nto Parliament for ever.\n\nThat unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat next\nto that on which Melmotte had placed himself. It had so happened\nthree or four times since Melmotte had been in the House, as the\nyoung lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had\nresolved that he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. He\nhad understood that countenance of the sort which he as a young\naristocrat could give to the man of millions who had risen no one\nknew whence, was part of the bargain in reference to the marriage,\nand he was gifted with a mingled honesty and courage which together\nmade him willing and able to carry out his idea. He had given\nMelmotte little lessons as to ordinary forms of the House, and had\ndone what in him lay to earn the money which was to be forthcoming.\nBut it had become manifest both to him and to his father during the\nlast two days,--very painfully manifest to his father,--that the\nthing must be abandoned. And if so,--then why should he be any longer\ngracious to Melmotte? And, moreover, though he had been ready to be\ncourteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable man, he was not\nanxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was now assured,\nhad been certainly guilty of forgery. But to get up at once and leave\nhis seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his side, did not\nsuit the turn of his mind. He looked round to his neighbour on the\nright, with a half-comic look of misery, and then prepared himself to\nbear his punishment, whatever it might be.\n\n\"Have you been up with Marie to-day?\" said Melmotte.\n\n\"No;--I've not,\" replied the lord.\n\n\"Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shall\nbe in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to\nmake you comfortable.\"\n\nCould it be possible that the man did not know that all the world\nwas united in accusing him of forgery? \"I'll tell you what it is,\"\nsaid Nidderdale. \"I think you had better see my governor again, Mr.\nMelmotte.\"\n\n\"There's nothing wrong, I hope.\"\n\n\"Well;--I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only\njust came down to enter an appearance.\" He had to cross Melmotte on\nhis way out, and as he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand. \"Good\nnight, my boy,\" said Melmotte quite aloud,--in a voice much louder\nthan that which members generally allow themselves for conversation.\nNidderdale was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man\nin the House who did not understand the whole thing. He rushed down\nthrough the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step,\nand as he escaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton, who, since his\nlittle conversation with Mr. Beauclerk, had heard further news.\n\n\"You know what has happened, Nidderdale?\"\n\n\"About Melmotte, you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, about Melmotte,\" continued Lupton. \"He has been arrested in his\nown house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery.\"\n\n\"I wish he had,\" said Nidderdale, \"with all my heart. If you go in\nyou'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking\nto me as though everything were all right.\"\n\n\"Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken\nunder a warrant from the Lord Mayor.\"\n\n\"The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his\nprisoner himself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he\nwasn't on his legs before long.\"\n\nMelmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the House\nadjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then with\na slow step,--with almost majestic steps,--he descended to the\ndining-room and ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and\nsome little difficulty about a seat. No one was very willing to make\nroom for him. But at last he secured a place, almost jostling some\nunfortunate who was there before him. It was impossible to expel\nhim,--almost as impossible to sit next him. Even the waiters were\nunwilling to serve him;--but with patience and endurance he did at\nlast get his dinner. He was there in his right, as a member of the\nHouse of Commons, and there was no ground on which such service as\nhe required could be refused to him. It was not long before he had\nthe table all to himself. But of this he took no apparent notice.\nHe spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his bottle of champagne\nwith much apparent enjoyment. Since his friendly intercourse with\nNidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor had he spoken to any man.\nThey who watched him declared among themselves that he was happy in\nhis own audacity;--but in truth he was probably at that moment the\nmost utterly wretched man in London. He would have better studied\nhis personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spent his evening\nin groans and wailings. But even he, with all the world now gone\nfrom him, with nothing before him but the extremest misery which the\nindignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to spend the\nlast moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any rate for\naudacity. It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his toga around\nhim before his death!\n\nHe went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, taking\nfrom his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded to\nlight a cigar about eight inches long. Mr. Brown, from the City, was\nin the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered Mr. Brown\none of the same. Mr. Brown was a short, fat, round little man, over\nsixty, who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace\nset of features an air of importance by the contraction of his lips\nand the knitting of his brows. It was as good as a play to see Mr.\nBrown jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting\non a double frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. \"You needn't\nthink so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't\nmean any offence.\" So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud,\nhoarse laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he\nwere enjoying his triumph.\n\nHe sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out\ninto a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;--as\nthough he were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all\nthese men around him were fools for believing the stories which they\nhad heard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. Soon\nafter nine he went back again into the House, and again took his old\nplace. At this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and\nwater, as well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for\nanything. There was some debate going on in reference to the game\nlaws,--a subject on which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his own\nhousemaids,--but, as some speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs.\nAnother gentleman had also risen, and when the House called to that\nother gentleman Melmotte gave way. The other gentleman had not much\nto say, and in a few minutes Melmotte was again on his legs. Who\nshall dare to describe the thoughts which would cross the august mind\nof a Speaker of the House of Commons at such a moment? Of Melmotte's\nvillainy he had no official knowledge. And even could he have had\nsuch knowledge it was not for him to act upon it. The man was a\nmember of the House, and as much entitled to speak as another. But\nit seemed on that occasion that the Speaker was anxious to save the\nHouse from disgrace;--for twice and thrice he refused to have his\n\"eye caught\" by the member for Westminster. As long as any other\nmember would rise he would not have his eye caught. But Melmotte was\npersistent, and determined not to be put down. At last no one else\nwould speak, and the House was about to negative the motion without\na division,--when Melmotte was again on his legs, still persisting.\nThe Speaker scowled at him and leaned back in his chair. Melmotte\nstanding erect, turning his head round from one side of the House\nto another, as though determined that all should see his audacity,\npropping himself with his knees against the seat before him, remained\nfor half a minute perfectly silent. He was drunk,--but better able\nthan most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face\nnone of those outward signs of intoxication by which drunkenness is\ngenerally made apparent. But he had forgotten in his audacity that\nwords are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had not a\nword at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself, then\nlooked once more round the House with a glance of anger, and after\nthat toppled headlong forward over the shoulders of Mr. Beauchamp\nBeauclerk, who was now sitting in front of him.\n\nHe might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he\nremained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only\nobject, he could hardly have taken a surer course. The scene, as it\noccurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performer\nshould have been carried away into enforced obscurity. There was much\ncommotion in the House. Mr. Beauclerk, a man of natural good nature,\nthough at the moment put to considerable personal inconvenience,\nhastened, when he recovered his own equilibrium, to assist the\ndrunken man. But Melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping\nhimself. He quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself,\nput his hat on, and endeavoured to look as though nothing special had\noccurred. The House resumed its business, taking no further notice of\nMelmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment\nto be adopted with drunken members. But the member for Westminster\ncaused no further inconvenience. He remained in his seat for perhaps\nten minutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still with\ncapacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to the\ndoors. His exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxious\none for the Speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. Had he\nfallen some one,--or rather some two or three,--must have picked him\nup and carried him out. But he did not fall either there or in the\nlobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard. Many were looking at him,\nbut none touched him. When he had got through the gates, leaning\nagainst the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who\nwas waiting for him soon took him home to Bruton Street. That was\nthe last which the British Parliament saw of its new member for\nWestminster.\n\nMelmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-room\nwithout difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. Between\neleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle\nof brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case.\nNeither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak of\nthem. Nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in\nthe mind of the servant. He was habitually left there at night, and\nthe servant as usual went to his bed. But at nine o'clock on the\nfollowing morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor.\nDrunk as he had been,--more drunk as he probably became during the\nnight,--still he was able to deliver himself from the indignities\nand penalties to which the law might have subjected him by a dose of\nprussic acid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIV.\n\nPAUL MONTAGUE'S VINDICATION.\n\n\nIt is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta\nCarbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that\nduty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague.\nI think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the\noffence against herself,--the offence against her own dignity as a\nwoman,--was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it\nwould all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the\nstory before it had reached her ears from any other source. Had he\nsaid to her,--when her heart was softest towards him,--I once loved\nanother woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me,\npersecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my\nlove for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining\nlove is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure,\nthat this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in\nwhich I saw you;--had he told it to her thus, there would not have\nbeen an opening for anger. And he doubtless would have so told it,\nhad not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly. He was then forced to\nexculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,--and\nto admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and which\nhad already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. It\nwas that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the\nmischief,--a journey as to which Hetta was not slow in understanding\nall that Roger Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would say\nnothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside with\nthis woman in amicable intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacy\nworse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington!\nHetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going\nthere since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what\nthat meant. And during this very hour he had been,--well, perhaps not\nexactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to\nher, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make her\nunderstand that he intended to make love to her. Of course they had\nreally understood it, since they had met at Madame Melmotte's first\nball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself to\ndance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen times. Of course she had\nnot intended him then to know that she would receive his love with\nfavour; but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it.\nShe had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that her\nheart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this very\ntime was spending his hours with a--woman, with a strange American\nwoman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How\ncould she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain from telling\nhim that everything must be over between them? Everybody was against\nhim,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that she\nhad not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A wretched,\nbad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her that\na friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a\ncreature;--but that he should have come to her with a second\ntale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from the\nfirst;--perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first!\nOf course she could not forgive him! No;--she would never forgive\nhim. She would break her heart for him. That was a matter of course;\nbut she would never forgive him. She knew well what it was that her\nmother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel\nwith Montague she would force her also into a marriage with Roger\nCarbury. But her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken.\nShe would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to\nacknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry\nany man. As she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in\nfeeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;--for though she\nwas altogether in accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of\nPaul Montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being so\nready to expose those iniquities.\n\nOh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken\ntenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which\nPaul had given her! It had as yet been an only present, and in\nthanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words\nof love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that might\never be to her,--to her dying day,--the one precious thing that had\nbeen given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must\nbe sent back;--and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman!\nBut her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she would\nfain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have\nbeen disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration of\naffection. She had given her answer to Paul Montague; and, as she\nwould have no further personal correspondence with him, she took the\nbrooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.\n\n\"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing\nelse?\"\n\n\"No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present.\nYou always knew everything that took place. If you will just send\nthat back to him,--without a word. You won't say anything,--will you,\nmamma?\"\n\n\"There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him\nunderstand you.\"\n\n\"I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that.\"\n\n\"He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning,\" said Lady\nCarbury.\n\nBut Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very\nbadly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of\nhis misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved\nvery well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only\nthat he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft\nafterwards! \"It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will\nnever talk of him any more.\"\n\n\"He is quite unworthy,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"I can't bear to--have him--abused,\" said Hetta sobbing.\n\n\"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time\nunhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time.\nBut it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be\nso sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people\nto allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the\nfuture, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall\nbe forgotten at once.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say\nany more.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is\nbefore you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of\ncourse you must be married.\"\n\n\"There is no of course at all.\"\n\n\"Of course you must be married,\" continued Lady Carbury, \"and of\ncourse it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best\ndone. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe\nmoney to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune.\"\n\n\"Money to Mr. Broune!\"\n\n\"Yes,--to Mr. Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr. Broune\ntold me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that\nI shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--your\ncousin and Mr. Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out of\nLondon,--probably abroad.\"\n\n\"Of course I shall go with you.\"\n\n\"It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary.\nWhy should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my\nlife must be with Felix in some French or German town!\"\n\n\"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of\nme always as though I were a burden?\"\n\n\"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But\nyou,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you\nwill be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing.\nYou have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life,\nand of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your\nbrother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want.\"\n\n\"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?\"\n\n\"Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown\nnonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger.\"\n\n\"This is horrid,\" said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. \"Cannot\nyou understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him\nfrom my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart\nin pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very\nbadly,--and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did\nnot think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself\nto somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be\nquite--quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won't\ntake me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind and\ntry and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse.\" Then,\nwithout waiting for a reply she left the room and betook herself to\nher own apartment.\n\nLady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not\nconceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the\nopportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the\nother lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her\ndaughter,--as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--in\norder that her child might live comfortably. But she felt that\nwhenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as\nan offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable to\naccommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. Deep as was the\nsorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace,\nshe could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. If there was\nanything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet\nshe, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! At\nthe present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish\nin her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she\ncommenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be\nher coming destiny.\n\nIn these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and of\nher own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more\nof him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever\nseen or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy\nhad been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played at\nbeing friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, during\nthe last five or six weeks,--since she had refused his offer,--they\nhad really learned to know each other. In the exquisite misery of\nher troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son,\nand he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true\ncounsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him.\nThere was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and he, in\nspeaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had told her\nthat she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The consequence\nwas that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape.\nBut she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for\nshe told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after her\ndisagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And,\non that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune in her back room, she\ntold him of both occurrences. \"If the girl has got the money--,\" she\nbegan, regretting her son's obstinacy.\n\n\"I don't believe a bit of it,\" said Broune. \"From all that I can\nhear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may\nbe sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in\nthat way. I would not have anything to do with it.\"\n\n\"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?\"\n\n\"A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested.\" It\nwas now between nine and ten in the evening. \"But as I came away from\nmy room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to\nstand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I\nimagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out\nof the property.\"\n\n\"What a wonderful career it has been!\"\n\n\"Yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am\ninclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought\nabout by his reckless personal expenditure.\"\n\n\"Why did he spend such a lot of money?\"\n\n\"Because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtain\nuniversal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten\nto calculate the force of the envy of his competitors.\"\n\n\"You think he has committed forgery?\"\n\n\"Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet.\"\n\n\"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her.\"\n\n\"Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side,\nand I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his.\"\nLady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that even\nMelmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in\nwant of assistance as her son. \"At any rate do not think of it any\nmore.\" Then she told him her grief about Hetta. \"Ah, there,\" said he,\n\"I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion.\"\n\n\"He doesn't owe a shilling,\" said Lady Carbury, \"and he is really a\nfine gentleman.\"\n\n\"But if she doesn't like him?\"\n\n\"Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the\nworld. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But\nshe has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love.\"\n\n\"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with\nthat nonsense.\"\n\n\"Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any\nother luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And\nthose who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the\nground like this Mr. Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight\nsince we all thought him the greatest man in London.\" Mr. Broune only\nsmiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never\nheld that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.\n\nOn the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying,\nas yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letter\nwas brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr.\nMontague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily,\nand then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of\nindifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the\nroom she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as\nyet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from\nher dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for\never, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probably\nwillingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American\nwoman. But now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come\nbetween her and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she\nopened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herself\na moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by\nher lover were or were not such as she ought to accept.\n\n\n   DEAREST HETTA,\n\n   I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have\n   ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have\n   never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a\n   moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did\n   once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger\n   you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you\n   had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had\n   no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the\n   story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the\n   other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I\n   suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had\n   made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her\n   becoming my wife before I had ever seen you, and that I\n   have certainly never wavered in my determination since\n   I saw you. I can with safety refer to Roger as to this,\n   because I was with him when I so determined, and made up\n   my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had\n   ever even met you.\n\n   If I understand it all right you are angry because I have\n   associated with Mrs. Hurtle since I so determined. I am\n   not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. You\n   may blame me for that if you please,--though it cannot\n   have been a fault against you. But, after what had\n   occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to\n   England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly.\n   Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here,\n   without a single other friend, and telling me that she was\n   unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was\n   I to refuse? I think that that would have been unkind. It\n   was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.\n\n   She asked me to renew my engagement. I am bound to tell\n   you that, but I know in telling you that it will go no\n   farther. I declined, telling her that it was my purpose to\n   ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been\n   anger and sorrow,--anger on her part and sorrow on mine.\n   But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded. As\n   far as she was concerned my trouble was over,--except in\n   so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to\n   me,--when, on a sudden, I found that the story had reached\n   you in such a form as to make you determined to quarrel\n   with me!\n\n   Of course you do not know it all, for I cannot tell you\n   all without telling her history. But you know everything\n   that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say that you\n   have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night.\n   This evening your brooch was brought to me with three\n   or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot\n   understand that if you really love me, you should wish to\n   separate yourself from me,--or that, if you ever loved me,\n   you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n   I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know\n   what I am writing, and take first one outrageous idea into\n   my head and then another. My love for you is so thorough\n   and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward\n   to living without you, now that you have once owned that\n   you have loved me. I cannot think it possible that love,\n   such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to\n   cease all at a moment. Mine can't. I don't think it is\n   natural that we should be parted.\n\n   If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs.\n   Hurtle. Anything is better than that we both should be\n   broken-hearted.\n\n   Yours most affectionately,\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXV.\n\nBREAKFAST IN BERKELEY SQUARE.\n\n\nLord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the\nperformance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say,\ndisgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all\nits circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening,\nand Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with\nunsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord\ndrink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now\nknew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were\nto become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for\nthe City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery,\neverybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had\npretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet he\nhad seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord \"his\ndear boy\" before the whole House.\n\nAnd then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If\nhe had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the\ngirl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had\nquarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and\nhad confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite of\na little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good\nfellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes\ngenerally? He was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothing\nof which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that she\ndeserved well at his hands. Though at this moment he hated the father\nmost bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had\nbeen pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly\nfeeling for the girl. Of course he could not marry her now. That was\nmanifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others,\nhad known that she was to be married for her money, and now that\nbubble had been burst. But he felt that he owed it to her, as to a\ncomrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personal\nexplanation with herself. He arranged in his own mind the sort of\nspeech that he would make to her. \"Of course you know it can't be.\nIt was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and now\nit turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and we\nshould have nothing to live upon. It's out of the question. But, upon\nmy word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think\nwe should have got on uncommon well together.\" That was the kind of\nspeech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find\nfor himself the opportunity of making it. He thought that he must put\nit all into a letter. But then that would be tantamount to a written\nconfession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared\nthat Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great man\nhimself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of such\nan admission.\n\nBetween seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he saw\nDolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte,\nthe prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody.\nDolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a sense\nof his own importance. \"I wonder whether it's true,\" he was saying to\nLord Grasslough. \"He has an appointment to meet me and my governor\nat twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore\nyesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep\nhis appointment, you know, if he's in prison.\"\n\n\"You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that,\" said\nGrasslough.\n\n\"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has\nbeen. He had no more right than you have to give up the property.\nHere's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to\nspeak to him since he cut up so rough the other night.\"\n\nIn a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grasslough\nasked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about\nMelmotte, the latter answered out loud, \"Yes;--I left him in the\nHouse half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"People are saying that he has been arrested.\"\n\n\"I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when\nI left the House.\" Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly\nLongestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. \"I suppose you were about\nright the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understand\nwhat it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both\nof us.\"\n\n\"Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me,\" said Dolly. \"I think\nyou're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel.\nSuppose we have a rubber of whist.\"\n\nLater on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had\ntried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, and\nthat he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall.\n\"By George, I should like to have seen that!\" said Dolly.\n\n\"I am very glad I was not there,\" said Nidderdale. It was three\no'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte was\nlying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.\n\nOn the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at\nbreakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square.\nFrom thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a few\nhundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with\nhis father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that\nsomething might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage.\nThe Marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in\nwhich he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. He\ncould be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the\nladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the most\npart, found it impossible to live with him. But his eldest son had\nendured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been\ntreated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means\nof his own extreme good humour. What did a few hard words matter?\nIf his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all\nthat meant. As long as his father would make fair allowance for his\nown peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father's\nroughness. All this was based on his grand theory of live and let\nlive. He expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion,\nand he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it.\n\nHe was a little late himself, and he found his father already\nbuttering his toast. \"I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment\nsooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it.\"\n\n\"You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't\nearn the money.\" Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of\ntea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.\n\n\"I suppose you were drinking last night,\" said the old lord.\n\n\"Not particular.\" The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth at\nhim. \"The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that.\"\n\n\"I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne.\nWell;--what have you got to say about all this?\"\n\n\"What have you got to say?\"\n\n\"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it.\"\n\n\"I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own\nthat. I suppose the whole thing is over?\"\n\n\"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own\nmoney.\" Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour\nin the House on the preceding evening. \"What the devil does that\nmatter?\" said the old man. \"You're not going to marry the man\nhimself.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now.\"\n\n\"And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is\nhers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be\nchoosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?\"\n\n\"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else.\" The\nMarquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his\nson much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such\na search. \"At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who\nis to be put upon his trial for forgery.\"\n\n\"I can't see what that has to do with you.\"\n\n\"I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I\ncouldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money.\"\n\n\"Then you may just go to the devil,\" said the old Marquis turning\nhimself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up\nthe newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect\nequanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. \"They tell\nme,\" said the old man, \"that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have\na lot of money.\"\n\n\"A Jewess,\" suggested Nidderdale.\n\n\"What difference does that make?\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"What difference does that make?\"]\n\n\n\"Oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. Have you\nheard any sum named, sir?\" The old man only grunted. \"There are two\nsisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have a\nhundred thousand each.\"\n\n\"They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about\ntwenty thousand a year.\"\n\n\"It's only for her life, sir.\"\n\n\"She could insure her life. D----me, sir, we must do something. If\nyou turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to\nlive?\"\n\n\"I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would\nbe a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it.\"\nThe old man growled again. \"You see, sir, I've been so much in\nearnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about\nany one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's\na pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the\namount of money, and what is expected in return. It 'd save a deal of\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away,\"\nsaid the old Marquis.\n\nAt that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdale\nthat a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not\nalways anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the\nservant whether he knew who the man was. \"I believe, my lord, he's\none of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street,\" said the\nfootman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances\nof Lord Nidderdale's engagement. The son, who was still smoking,\nlooked at his father as though in doubt. \"You'd better go and see,\"\nsaid the Marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as\nto what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. \"Go and see\nMelmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are\nready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you\nwon't stir a step till it has been actually paid over.\"\n\n\"He knows that already,\" said Nidderdale as he left the room.\n\nIn the hall he found a man whom he recognised as Melmotte's butler, a\nponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But\nthe lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had\nsome story to tell. \"Is there anything the matter?\"\n\n\"Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to\nhear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much\nas your lordship.\"\n\n\"They've taken him to prison!\" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man\nshook his head. \"What is it then? He can't be dead.\" Then the man\nnodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into\ntears. \"Mr. Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night.\nI saw him myself. How did he die?\" But the fat, ponderous man was\nso affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as\nyet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply\nhanded the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was\nfrom Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time at\nwhich news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note was\nas follows:--\n\n\n   DEAR LORD NIDDERDALE,\n\n   The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though\n   I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to\n   me, only for a few minutes?\n\n   MARIE.\n\n\nHe read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as\nto the manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gathering\nfrom a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that\nsomething special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. \"Mr.\nMelmotte is--dead,\" said his son. The old man dropped his stick,\nand fell back against the wall. \"This man says that he is dead, and\nhere is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that\nhe--died?\"\n\n\"It was--poison,\" said the butler solemnly. \"There has been a\ndoctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by\nhimself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he\nhad in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to\nhimself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there he\nwas,--poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him\nup, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had\nbeen and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us.\"\n\nBefore the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation\nbetween the father and son as to a compliance with the request which\nMarie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his son\nhad better not go to Bruton Street. \"What's the use? What good can\nyou do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've\ngot to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are.\"\n\nBut Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to\nthis advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her\nabject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any\nrate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him,\nand he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he\ncould get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. \"I\ncouldn't refuse her,\" he said over and over again. \"I couldn't bring\nmyself to do it. Oh, no;--I shall certainly go.\"\n\n\"You'll get into a mess if you do.\"\n\n\"Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at\nonce. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would\nbe abominable.\" Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the\nbutler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half\nan hour.\n\n\"Don't you go and make a fool of yourself,\" his father said to him\nwhen he was alone. \"This is just one of those times when a man may\nruin himself by being soft-hearted.\" Nidderdale simply shook his head\nas he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVI.\n\nTHE MEETING IN BRUTON STREET.\n\n\nWhen the news of her husband's death was in some very rough way\nconveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether.\nMarie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stood\nby the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps by\nthe necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman\nas by her own superior strength of character, to save herself from\nthat prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow\nis apt to produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to her\ntidings of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the\nbedside. But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame\nMelmotte soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she\nwas not only active but efficacious. No;--she would not go down to\nthe room; she could do no good by going thither. But they must send\nfor a doctor. They should send for a doctor immediately. She was then\ntold that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in the\nrooms below. The necessity of throwing whatever responsibility there\nmight be on to other shoulders had been at once apparent to the\nservants, and they had sent out right and left, so that the house\nmight be filled with persons fit to give directions in such an\nemergency. The officers from the police station were already there\nwhen the woman who now filled Didon's place in the house communicated\nto Madame Melmotte the fact that she was a widow.\n\nIt was afterwards said by some of those who had seen her at the time,\nthat Marie Melmotte had shown a hard heart on the occasion. But the\ncondemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly not\nthat which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters.\nHe had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whose\nslightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become matters\nof serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were\nglorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed\nwould be missed with mourning. How should it have been so with\nher? In all the intercourses of her family, since the first rough\nusage which she remembered, there had never been anything sweet or\ngracious. Though she had recognised a certain duty, as due from\nherself to her father, she had found herself bound to measure it,\nso that more should not be exacted from her than duty required. She\nhad long known that her father would fain make her a slave for his\nown purposes, and that if she put no limits to her own obedience he\ncertainly would put none. She had drawn no comparison between him\nand other fathers, or between herself and other daughters, because\nshe had never become conversant with the ways of other families.\nAfter a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in a\ndaughter's heart; but she had never respected him, and had spent the\nbest energies of her character on a resolve that she would never fear\nhim. \"He may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his\nadvantage that which I do not think he has a right to exact from\nme.\" That had been the state of her mind towards her father; and now\nthat he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving\nher to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and no\nassistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awe\nrather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Those who depart must have\nearned such sorrow before it can be really felt. They who are left\nmay be overwhelmed by the death--even of their most cruel tormentors.\nMadame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it could not probably\nbe said of her with truth that she was crushed by pure grief. There\nwas fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fear\nof terrible revelations, fear of some necessary movement she knew\nnot whither, fear that she might be discovered to be a poor wretched\nimpostor who never could have been justified in standing in the\nsame presence with emperors and princes, with duchesses and cabinet\nministers. This and the fact that the dead body of the man who had so\nlately been her tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardly\ndare to leave her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thus\nmore dreadful even than when alive, utterly conquered her. Feelings\nof the same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerful\nalso with Marie;--but they did not conquer her. She was strong and\nconquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to which\nshe was in truth superior. In such a household the death of such a\nfather after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender sorrow\nwhich comes from real love.\n\nShe soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and had\ndoubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had been\ngreater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to sign\nthose deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her\nthe truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means of\nknowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. But\nshe had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her\nthat it would be of no avail,--and at that time had not been angry\nwith her as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his\nruin. She took some comfort in thinking of that.\n\nBut what was she to do? What was to be done generally by that\nover-cumbered household? She and her pseudo-mother had been\ninstructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed\nthe order. But she herself at this moment cared but little for any\nproperty. How ought she to behave herself? Where should she go? On\nwhose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time?\nAs for love, and engagements, and marriage,--that was all over. In\nher difficulty she never for a moment thought of Sir Felix Carbury.\nThough she had been silly enough to love the man because he was\npleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone in silliness\nas to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one might lean.\nHad that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. But\nit might be possible that Lord Nidderdale would help her. He was\ngood-natured and manly, and would be efficacious,--if only he would\ncome to her. He was near, and she thought that at any rate she would\ntry. So she had written her note and sent it by the butler,--thinking\nas she did so of the words she would use to make the young man\nunderstand that all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying each\nother was, of course, to mean nothing now.\n\nIt was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown\nup-stairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. As he\npassed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open,\nhe saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of\nthe dead man was still lying there. But he went by rapidly without a\nglance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen\nhis burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words.\nAnd now the man was dead,--having destroyed his own life. Surely the\nman must have known when he uttered those words what it was that\nhe intended to do! When he had made that last appeal about Marie,\nconscious as he was that everyone was deserting him, he must even\nthen have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that it\nwas better that he should die! His misfortunes, whatever might be\ntheir nature, must have been heavy on him then with all their weight;\nand he himself and all the world had known that he was ruined.\nAnd yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage,\nand had spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be\naccomplished!\n\nNidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Marie\nwas with him. He walked up to her, took her by both hands, and\nlooked into her face. There was no trace of a tear, but her whole\ncountenance seemed to him to be altered. She was the first to speak.\n\n\"I thought you would come when I sent for you.\"\n\n\"Of course I came.\"\n\n\"I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who would. You\nwon't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall ever think any more of\nall those things which he was planning?\" She paused a moment, but he\nwas not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. \"You\nknow what has happened?\"\n\n\"Your servant told us.\"\n\n\"What are we to do? Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so dreadful! Poor\npapa! Poor papa! When I think of all that he must have suffered I\nwish that I could be dead too.\"\n\n\"Has your mother been told?\"\n\n\"Oh yes. She knows. No one tried to conceal anything for a moment.\nIt was better that it should be so;--better at last. But we have\nno friends who would be considerate enough to try to save us from\nsorrow. But I think it was better. Mamma is very bad. She is always\nnervous and timid. Of course this has nearly killed her. What ought\nwe to do? It is Mr. Longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"He will not mind that now.\"\n\n\"Where must we go? We can't go back to that big place in Grosvenor\nSquare. Who will manage for us? Who will see the doctor and the\npolicemen?\"\n\n\"I will do that.\"\n\n\"But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do. Why should I\nask you to do anything?\"\n\n\"Because we are friends.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"no. You cannot really regard me as a friend. I have\nbeen an impostor. I know that. I had no business to know a person\nlike you at all. Oh, if the next six months could be over! Poor\npapa;--poor papa!\" And then for the first time she burst into tears.\n\n\"I wish I knew what might comfort you,\" he said.\n\n\"How can there be any comfort? There never can be comfort again! As\nfor comfort, when were we ever comfortable? It has been one trouble\nafter another,--one fear after another! And now we are friendless and\nhomeless. I suppose they will take everything that we have.\"\n\n\"Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I think he had ever so many,--but I do not know who they were. His\nown clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left him\nyesterday. I suppose they will know something in Abchurch Lane; but\nnow that Herr Croll has gone I am not acquainted even with the name\nof one of them. Mr. Miles Grendall used to be with him.\"\n\n\"I do not think that he could be of much service.\"\n\n\"Nor Lord Alfred? Lord Alfred was always with him till very lately.\"\nNidderdale shook his head. \"I suppose not. They only came because\npapa had a big house.\" The young lord could not but feel that he\nwas included in the same rebuke. \"Oh, what a life it has been! And\nnow,--now it's over.\" As she said this it seemed that for the moment\nher strength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of the\nsofa. He tried to raise her, but she shook him away, burying her\nface in her hands. He was standing close to her, still holding her\narm, when he heard a knock at the front door, which was immediately\nopened, as the servants were hanging about in the hall. \"Who are\nthey?\" said Marie, whose sharp ears caught the sound of various\nsteps. Lord Nidderdale went out on to the head of the stairs, and\nimmediately heard the voice of Dolly Longestaffe.\n\nDolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the care\nof Mr. Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had met\nhis father with Mr. Bideawhile at the corner of the square. They were\nall coming according to appointment to receive the money which Mr.\nMelmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. Of course they\nhad none of them as yet heard of the way in which the Financier had\nmade his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the door\nhad been intent only in reference to their own money. Squercum, who\nhad heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that the\nmoney would not be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine of\nsuccess. \"Don't we wish we may get it?\" Dolly had said, and by saying\nso had very much offended his father, who had resented the want of\nreverence implied in the use of that word \"we.\" They had all been\nadmitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an old\nacquaintance with some of the articles around him. \"I knew I'd got a\ncoat just like that,\" said Dolly, \"and I never could make out what my\nfellow had done with it.\" This was the speech which Nidderdale had\nheard, standing on the top of the stairs.\n\nThe two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who had\nopened the door and from the presence of three or four servants in\nthe hall, that things were not going on in their usual course. Before\nDolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to Mr.\nBideawhile that Mr. Melmotte--\"was no more.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" exclaimed Mr. Bideawhile. Squercum put his hands into his\ntrowsers pockets and opened his mouth wide. \"Dead!\" muttered Mr.\nLongestaffe senior. \"Dead!\" said Dolly. \"Who's dead?\" The butler\nshook his head. Then Squercum whispered a word into the butler's\near, and the butler thereupon nodded his head. \"It's about what I\nexpected,\" said Squercum. Then the butler whispered the word to Mr.\nLongestaffe, and whispered it also to Mr. Bideawhile, and they all\nknew that the millionaire had swallowed poison during the night.\n\nIt was known to the servants that Mr. Longestaffe was the owner of\nthe house, and he was therefore, as having authority there, shown\ninto the room where the body of Melmotte was lying on a sofa. The two\nlawyers and Dolly of course followed, as did also Lord Nidderdale,\nwho had now joined them from the lobby above. There was a policeman\nin the room who seemed to be simply watching the body, and who\nrose from his seat when the gentlemen entered. Two or three of the\nservants followed them, so that there was almost a crowd round the\ndead man's bier. There was no further tale to be told. That Melmotte\nhad been in the House on the previous night, and had there disgraced\nhimself by intoxication, they had known already. That he had been\nfound dead that morning had been already announced. They could only\nstand round and gaze on the square, sullen, livid features of the\nbig-framed man, and each lament that he had ever heard the name of\nMelmotte.\n\n\"Are you in the house here?\" said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in a\nwhisper.\n\n\"She sent for me. We live quite close, you know. She wanted somebody\nto tell her something. I must go up to her again now.\"\n\n\"Had you seen him before?\"\n\n\"No indeed. I only came down when I heard your voices. I fear it will\nbe rather bad for you;--won't it?\"\n\n\"He was regularly smashed, I suppose?\" asked Dolly.\n\n\"I know nothing myself. He talked to me about his affairs once, but\nhe was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything.\nI believed him then. How it will go, I can't say.\"\n\n\"That other thing is all over of course,\" suggested Dolly.\n\nNidderdale intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing\nwas all over, and then returned to Marie. There was nothing further\nthat the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed from the\nhouse;--not, however, till Mr. Bideawhile had given certain short\ninjunctions to the butler concerning the property contained in Mr.\nLongestaffe's town residence.\n\n\"They had come to see him,\" said Lord Nidderdale in a whisper. \"There\nwas some appointment. He had told them to be all here at this hour.\"\n\n\"They didn't know, then?\" asked Marie.\n\n\"Nothing,--till the man told them.\"\n\n\"And did you go in?\"\n\n\"Yes; we all went into the room.\" Marie shuddered, and again hid her\nface. \"I think the best thing I can do,\" said Nidderdale, \"is to go\nto Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who is the lawyer whom he\nchiefly trusted. I know Smith had to do with his own affairs, because\nhe has told me so at the Board; and if necessary I will find out\nCroll. No doubt I can trace him. Then we had better employ the lawyer\nto arrange everything for you.\"\n\n\"And where had we better go to?\"\n\n\"Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?\"\n\n\"Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. Perhaps Frankfort would\nbe the best. But shouldn't we stay till something has been done\nhere? And couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from Mr.\nLongestaffe's house?\" Nidderdale promised that he himself would look\nfor lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer. \"And now, my lord,\nI suppose that I never shall see you again,\" said Marie.\n\n\"I don't know why you should say that.\"\n\n\"Because it will be best. Why should you? All this will be trouble\nenough to you when people begin to say what we are. But I don't think\nit has been my fault.\"\n\n\"Nothing has ever been your fault.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, my lord. I shall always think of you as one of the kindest\npeople I ever knew. I thought it best to send to you for different\nreasons, but I do not want you to come back.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Marie. I shall always remember you.\" And so they parted.\n\nAfter that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding both\nMr. Smith and Herr Croll. When he reached Abchurch Lane, the news of\nMelmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known,\nor said to be known, of his circumstances than Nidderdale had as yet\nheard. The crushing blow to him, so said Herr Croll, had been the\ndesertion of Cohenlupe,--that and the sudden fall in the value of the\nSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway shares, consequent on the\nrumours spread about the City respecting the Pickering property. It\nwas asserted in Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touched\nthe Pickering property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood for\nWestminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to do\nany or all of those things without danger, simply as the result of\nthe money which would then have been realised by the railway. But he\nhad allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively\nsmall sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one\ndanger to another, till at last the waters around him had become\ntoo deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him. As to his immediate\ndeath, Herr Croll expressed not the slightest astonishment. It was\njust the thing, Herr Croll said, that he had been sure that Melmotte\nwould do, should his difficulties ever become too great for him. \"And\ndere vas a leetle ting he lay himself open by de oder day,\" said\nCroll, \"dat vas nasty,--very nasty.\" Nidderdale shook his head, but\nasked no questions. Croll had alluded to the use of his own name, but\ndid not on this occasion make any further revelation. Then Croll made\na further statement to Lord Nidderdale, which I think he must have\ndone in pure good-nature. \"My lor,\" he said, whispering very gravely,\n\"de money of de yong lady is all her own.\" Then he nodded his head\nthree times. \"Nobody can toch it, not if he vas in debt millions.\"\nAgain he nodded his head.\n\n\"I am very glad to hear it for her sake,\" said Lord Nidderdale as he\ntook his leave.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVII.\n\nDOWN AT CARBURY.\n\n\nWhen Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins in\nWelbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself. That he\nshould be discontented generally with the circumstances of his life\nwas a matter of course. He knew that he was farther removed than\never from the object on which his whole mind was set. Had Hetta\nCarbury learned all the circumstances of Paul's engagement with\nMrs. Hurtle before she had confessed her love to Paul,--so that her\nheart might have been turned against the man before she had made her\nconfession,--then, he thought, she might at last have listened to\nhim. Even though she had loved the other man, she might have at last\ndone so, as her love would have been buried in her own bosom. But the\ntale had been told after the fashion which was most antagonistic to\nhis own interests. Hetta had never heard Mrs. Hurtle's name till she\nhad given herself away, and had declared to all her friends that she\nhad given herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. The\nmore Roger thought of this, the more angry he was with Paul Montague,\nand the more convinced that that man had done him an injury which he\ncould never forgive.\n\nBut his grief extended even beyond that. Though he was never tired\nof swearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul Montague, yet\nthere was present to him a feeling that an injury was being done to\nthe man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury.\nHe had declined to tell Hetta any part of the story about Mrs.\nHurtle,--actuated by a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust\nput in him by a man who was at the time his friend; and he had told\nnothing. But no one knew so well as he did the fact that all the\nattention latterly given by Paul to the American woman had by no\nmeans been the effect of love, but had come from a feeling on Paul's\npart that he could not desert the woman he had once loved, when\nshe asked him for his kindness. If Hetta could know everything\nexactly,--if she could look back and read the state of Paul's mind as\nhe, Roger, could read it,--then she would probably forgive the man,\nor perhaps tell herself that there was nothing for her to forgive.\nRoger was anxious that Hetta's anger should burn hot,--because of\nthe injury done to himself. He thought that there were ample reasons\nwhy Paul Montague should be punished,--why Paul should be utterly\nexpelled from among them, and allowed to go his own course. But it\nwas not right that the man should be punished on false grounds. It\nseemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to his enemy by\nrefraining from telling all that he knew.\n\nAs to the girl's misery in losing her lover, much as he loved her,\ntrue as it was that he was willing to devote himself and all that\nhe had to her happiness, I do not think that at the present moment\nhe was disturbed in that direction. It is hardly natural, perhaps,\nthat a man should love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make\nher happy by giving her to another man. Roger told himself that\nPaul would be an unsafe husband, a fickle husband,--one who might\nbe carried hither and thither both in his circumstances and his\nfeelings,--and that it would be better for Hetta that she should not\nmarry him; but at the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that\nhe himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit.\n\nAnd yet he had said not a word. He had referred Hetta to the man\nhimself. He thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know,\nthe state of Hetta's mind. She was wretched because she thought that\nwhile her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willingly\nallowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, and\nmaking to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her.\nThis was not true. Roger knew that it was not true. But when he tried\nto quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out among\nthemselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance.\n\nHis life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate. He had become\ntired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never for\na moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. Roger had told\nhim once that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject\nof further conversation between them. In answer to this, Father\nBarham had declared that he would never consent to remain as an\nintimate associate with any man on those terms. Roger had persisted\nin his stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was\nhis host's intention to banish him from Carbury Hall. Roger had made\nno reply, and the priest had of course been banished. But even this\nadded to his misery. Father Barham was a gentleman, was a good man,\nand in great penury. To ill-treat such a one, to expel such a one\nfrom his house, seemed to Roger to be an abominable cruelty. He was\nunhappy with himself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the\nman come back to him. It was already being said of him among his\nneighbours, at Eardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that\nhe either had become or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the\npriest's influence. Mrs. Yeld had even taken upon herself to write\nto him a most affectionate letter, in which she said very little as\nto any evidence that had reached her as to Roger's defection, but\ndilated at very great length on the abominations of a certain lady\nwho is supposed to indulge in gorgeous colours.\n\nHe was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at Sheep's\nAcre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry John\nCrumb. Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and accused by his\nneighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to that\nsource of consolation which he found to be most easily within his\nreach. Since Ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was\nmaking himself generally a scandal and a nuisance. His landlord\nhad interfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had always\ndeclared that his niece and John Crumb were the cause of it all;\nfor now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the\nlover as he did to the girl. John Crumb wasn't in earnest. If he\nhad been in earnest he would have gone after her to London at once.\nNo;--he wouldn't invite Ruby to come back. If Ruby would come back,\nrepentant, full of sorrow,--and hadn't been and made a fool of\nherself in the meantime,--then he'd think of taking her back. In the\nmeantime, with circumstances in their present condition, he evidently\nthought that he could best face the difficulties of the world by an\nunfaltering adhesion to gin, early in the day and all day long. This,\ntoo, was a grievance to Roger Carbury.\n\nBut he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the present\nmoment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. He\nwas making hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river\nside; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he\nsaw John Crumb approaching across the field. He had not seen John\nsince the eventful journey to London; nor had he seen him in London;\nbut he knew well all that had occurred,--how the dealer in pollard\nhad thrashed his cousin, Sir Felix, how he had been locked up by the\npolice and then liberated,--and how he was now regarded in Bungay\nas a hero, as far as arms were concerned, but as being very \"soft\"\nin the matter of love. The reader need hardly be told that Roger was\nnot at all disposed to quarrel with Mr. Crumb, because the victim\nof Crumb's heroism had been his own cousin. Crumb had acted well,\nand had never said a word about Sir Felix since his return to the\ncountry. No doubt he had now come to talk about his love,--and in\norder that his confessions might not be made before all the assembled\nhaymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meet him. There was soon\nevident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of delight. As Roger\napproached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave a bit of paper\nthat he had in his hands. \"She's a coomin; she's a coomin,\" were the\nfirst words he uttered. Roger knew very well that in his friend's\nmind there was but one \"she\" in the world, and that the name of that\nshe was Ruby Ruggles.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"She's a coomin; she's a coomin.\"]\n\n\n\"I am delighted to hear it,\" said Roger. \"She has made it up with her\ngrandfather?\"\n\n\"Don't know now't about grandfeyther. She have made it up wi' me.\nKnow'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd she\nwould.\"\n\n\"Has she written to you, then?\"\n\n\"Well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. I do suppose that isn't\nthe way they does it. But it's all as one.\" And then Mr. Crumb thrust\nMrs. Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's hand.\n\nRoger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of Mrs.\nHurtle. Since he had first known Mrs. Hurtle's name, when Paul\nMontague had told the story of his engagement on his return from\nAmerica, Roger had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman.\nIt may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced against all\nAmericans, looking upon Washington much as he did upon Jack Cade or\nWat Tyler; and he pictured to himself all American women as being\nloud, masculine, and atheistical. But it certainly did seem that in\nthis instance Mrs. Hurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from\npure charity. \"She is a lady,\" Crumb began to explain, \"who do be\nliving with Mrs. Pipkin; and she is a lady as is a lady.\"\n\nRoger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he\nexplained that he, too, knew something of Mrs. Hurtle, and that he\nthought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true. \"True,\nsquoire!\" said Crumb, laughing with his whole face. \"I ha' nae a\ndoubt it's true. What's again its being true? When I had dropped into\nt'other fellow, of course she made her choice. It was me as was to\nblame, because I didn't do it before. I ought to ha' dropped into him\nwhen I first heard as he was arter her. It's that as girls like. So,\nsquoire, I'm just going again to Lon'on right away.\"\n\nRoger suggested that old Ruggles would, of course, receive his niece;\nbut as to this John expressed his supreme indifference. The old man\nwas nothing to him. Of course he would like to have the old man's\nmoney; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed that\nthings would come right in time. But this he knew,--that he wasn't\ngoing to cringe to the old man about his money. When Roger observed\nthat it would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she\nmight at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all the\nsubstantial comforts of his own house. It seemed to be his idea, that\non arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to church and\nbe married to her out of hand. He had thrashed his rival, and what\ncause could there now be for delay?\n\nBut before he left the field he made one other speech to the squire.\n\"You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin to\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Not in the least, Mr. Crumb.\"\n\n\"That's koind now. I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm,\nand I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and Ruby's once\nspliced, I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first\nday as he'll come to Bungay.\"\n\nRoger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation on\nthe part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on his\nown part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in that matter of the\nstreet encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate\nand continued happiness of Mr. and Mrs. John Crumb.\n\n\"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire,\" said Crumb as he went exulting out\nof the field.\n\nOn the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which disturbed\nhim very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return any\nanswer, or what answer. It was from Paul Montague, and was written by\nhim but a few hours after he had left his letter for Hetta with his\nown hands, at the door of her mother's house. Paul's letter to Roger\nwas as follows:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR ROGER,--\n\n   Though I know that you have cast me off from you I cannot\n   write to you in any other way, as any other way would be\n   untrue. You can answer me, of course, as you please, but\n   I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal to\n   you in the name of justice.\n\n   You know what has taken place between Hetta and myself.\n   She had accepted me, and therefore I am justified in\n   feeling sure that she must have loved me. But she has now\n   quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I am\n   never to see her again. Of course I don't mean to put up\n   with this. Who would? You will say that it is no business\n   of yours. But I think that you would not wish that she\n   should be left under a false impression, if you could put\n   her right.\n\n   Somebody has told her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. I suppose\n   it was Felix, and that he had learned it from those people\n   at Islington. But she has been told that which is untrue.\n   Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. She\n   supposes that I have willingly been passing my time with\n   Mrs. Hurtle during the last two months, although during\n   that very time I have asked for and have received the\n   assurance of her love. Now, whether or no I have been to\n   blame about Mrs. Hurtle,--as to which nothing at present\n   need be said,--it is certainly the truth that her coming\n   to England was not only not desired by me, but was felt by\n   me to be the greatest possible misfortune. But after all\n   that had passed I certainly owed it to her not to neglect\n   her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she\n   was a foreigner and unknown to any one. I went down to\n   Lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place\n   to her as one known to myself, and because I could not\n   refuse her so small a favour. You know that it was so, and\n   you know also, as no one else does, that whatever courtesy\n   I have shown to Mrs. Hurtle in England, I have been\n   constrained to show her.\n\n   I appeal to you to let Hetta know that this is true.\n   She had made me understand that not only her mother and\n   brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the story\n   of my acquaintance with Mrs. Hurtle. Neither Lady Carbury\n   nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it. You, and\n   you only, have known the truth. And now, though at the\n   present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell\n   Hetta the truth as you know it. You will understand me\n   when I say that I feel that I am being destroyed by a\n   false representation. I think that you, who abhor a\n   falsehood, will see the justice of setting me right, at\n   any rate as far as the truth can do so. I do not want you\n   to say a word for me beyond that.\n\n   Yours always,\n\n   PAUL MONTAGUE.\n\n\nWhat business is all that of mine? This, of course, was the first\nfeeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's letter. If Hetta had\nreceived any false impression, it had not come from him. He had told\nno stories against his rival, whether true or false. He had been so\nscrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. And if any false\nimpression had been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances\nor by untrue words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might\nfall upon him? Though every word in Montague's letter might be true,\nnevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him,\neven should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous\nimpressions. The fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering\nto make Mrs. Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of Hetta Carbury.\nSuch, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as he thought over all\nthe circumstances. At any rate, it was no business of his to correct\nthese wrong impressions.\n\nAnd yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. He did believe\nthat every word in Montague's letter was true. Though he had been\nvery indignant when he met Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together on the sands\nat Lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their\ncoming there had been precisely that which Montague had stated.\nIt took him two days to think over all this, two days of great\ndiscomfort and unhappiness. After all, why should he be a dog in the\nmanger? The girl did not care for him,--looked upon him as an old man\nto be regarded in a fashion altogether different from that in which\nshe regarded Paul Montague. He had let his time for love-making go\nby, and now it behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found\nit, and not to lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which\nhe could never attain. In such an emergency as this he should do what\nwas fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings. And yet\nthe passion which dominated John Crumb altogether, which made the\nmealman so intent on the attainment of his object as to render all\nother things indifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with\nRoger Carbury. Unfortunately for Roger, strong as his passion was,\nit was embarrassed by other feelings. It never occurred to Crumb to\nthink whether he was a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having\na decided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him.\nBut with Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to\nhamper him. John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should\ndo. He had to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her\nwhatever she might cost him. He was always confident though sometimes\nperplexed. But Roger had no confidence. He knew that he should never\nwin the game. In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to\nwin it. The people around him, from old fashion, still called him\nthe young squire! Why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years\nold,--so old that he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile\nspirits as those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend\nHepworth. Could he, by any training, bring himself to take her\nhappiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?\n\nIn such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's letter,--and\nhe answered it as follows:--\n\n\n   I do not know that I am concerned to meddle in your\n   affairs at all. I have told no tale against you, and I\n   do not know that I have any that I wish to tell in your\n   favour, or that I could so tell if I did wish. I think\n   that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs. Hurtle,\n   and disrespectfully to my cousin. Nevertheless, as you\n   appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which I\n   can give, and which you say no one else can give, I do\n   acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs. Hurtle's presence in\n   England has not been in accordance with your wishes, and\n   that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her lover\n   but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.\n\n   ROGER CARBURY.\n\n   Paul Montague, Esq.\n\n   You are at liberty to show this letter to Miss Carbury,\n   if you please; but if she reads part she should read the\n   whole!\n\n\nThere was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that\nspirit of self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself;\nand so he himself felt after the letter had been dispatched.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVIII.\n\nTHE INQUEST.\n\n\nMelmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the\nevening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to\nlodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at Hampstead.\nHerr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord Nidderdale's instance\nhad busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were\nmade instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nidderdale\nhimself had assisted them in their departure; and the German, with\nthe poor woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed\naccording to Melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the\ncarriage which took the mother and the daughter. They did not start\ntill nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment\nwould fain have been allowed to rest one other night in Bruton\nStreet. But Lord Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie\nunderstand that the inquest would be held early on the following\nmorning, and Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her\npoint. So the poor woman was taken away from Mr. Longestaffe's\nresidence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in\nGrosvenor Square, which she had not visited since the night on which\nshe had helped to entertain the Emperor of China.\n\nOn Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest\ndoubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The\nservants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them,\nlearned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him\nduring the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had\nundoubtedly been poisoned by prussic acid. It was also proved that he\nhad been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the\nclerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to\ntestify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was\nthere any doubt as to the cause.\n\nIn such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the\nunfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance,\nand has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved\ncondition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment.\nSurviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as\nin that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried\nlike any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the\npoor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should\nbe said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally\nguided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the\npoor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent\nlife; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself\nspecially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to\nhave been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been\nat last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from\nwhich he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the\nbenefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had\ndeserted her? Who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the\nonce beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might\nas well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon\nearth? Such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane,\nthough no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct\nup to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. But let\na Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his\nside--a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late\niniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has\nbeen able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a\nwretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had\ntaken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute\nwho had got into the House of Commons by false pretences, and had\ndisgraced the House by being drunk there,--and, of course, he will\nnot be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or\nwhatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed\nthemselves, with their wits about them. Just at this moment there was\na very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his\nhaving tumbled over poor Mr. Beauclerk in the House of Commons as\nto the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of\nthe day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible\nfor his actions when he took the poison. He was _felo de se_, and\ntherefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. But it may\nbe imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as\nmad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers\nof endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt\nhimself constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew\nall that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen.\nThe summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him.\nThere were some, among them Croll and Mr. Brehgert, who absolutely\nknew that he had committed forgery. He had no money for the\nLongestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at once.\nHe had assured himself long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not\nvery long ago,--that he would brave it all like a man. But we none\nof us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs.\nMelmotte's back had been so utterly crushed that I almost think that\nhe was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity.\n\nBut he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his\nname was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing\ntook place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made\nto the manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious.\nWestminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other\ndistricts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned\nagainst than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old\nstagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful\nthings. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with\naffection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his\nghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while\nto talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had\nbeen done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone\nalone that spoke of a monument.\n\nMr. Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of\nit a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had\nbeen no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to\ntown; and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the\nhonour of encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much\nfor Mr. Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was\nbecoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by\ntheir connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could\nnot get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying\nthe amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally\nclear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to\ndo so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat\nsmoking upon the stool in Mr. Squercum's office, where he now passed\na considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle\nof ill-usage.\n\n\"By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor.\nThere's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?\"\n\nSquercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what\npickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made\ninquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must\nbe property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it\nimpossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. \"They say that the things\nin the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all\nthat, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were\na lot of jewels, but the women have taken them,\" said Squercum.\n\n\"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever\nhear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all\ndone without a word from me in the matter? I don't suppose such a\nthing was ever known before, since properties were properties.\" Then\nhe uttered sundry threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to\nwhom he declared his intention of \"making it very hot for them.\"\n\nIt was an annoyance added to the elder Mr. Longestaffe that the\nmanagement of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively\ninto the hands of Mr. Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many\ndealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps\nof as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient\nman. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana\nLongestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr. Longestaffe had been\nparticularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence\nof Mr. Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had lately lived and\nhad died. The dead man's papers were still there,--deeds, documents,\nand such letters as he had not chosen to destroy;--and these could\nnot be removed quite at once. \"Mr. Brehgert must of course have\naccess to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely\nnecessary,\" said Mr. Longestaffe in answer to a message which\nwas brought to him; \"but he will of course see the expediency of\nrelieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible.\" But he soon\nfound it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor,\nespecially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing\nafter the injuries he had received.\n\nAll minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr.\nLongestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of £300 due to him\nfor the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became\nknown that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty\nper cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing\nby Melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very\ncomfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the\nparties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied\nbefore the father took anything. Mr. Longestaffe resolved during\nthese weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and\nhis own family, the house in London should not only not be kept\nup, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings,\nand that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number,\nand should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady\nPomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her\ndaughters. \"I have suffered great wrongs,\" said Mr. Longestaffe, \"but\nI must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children.\nIf our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might\nprobably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my\ndaughters I expect cheerful obedience.\" From what incidents of his\npast life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it might be\ndifficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the\ntime broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects,\nand Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. I think\nthe loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but she said not a\nword even about that.\n\nBut in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story\nare anticipated. Mr. Longestaffe had remained in London actually over\nthe 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of\nthe year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been\nmade. In the meantime he saw much of Mr. Brehgert, and absolutely\nformed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the\nabomination of his religion,--so that on one occasion he even\ncondescended to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton\nStreet. This, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the\nMelmotte affairs, when Mr. Longestaffe's heart had been softened\nby that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr. Brehgert came,\nand there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two\ngentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longestaffe's old\nport wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the\nconnection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the\nyoung lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant\nbridegroom. But in this evening Mr. Brehgert, who was by no means a\ncoward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully\nfine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longestaffe.\nThe subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to\nhis own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which\nMr. Longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy\nway, as though it did not sit very near his heart. \"Of course there's\na difference between me and you,\" he said. Mr. Longestaffe bowed his\nhead graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very\nwide difference. \"In our affairs,\" continued Brehgert, \"we expect\ngains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in\nyour position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money.\"\n\n\"Of course he does, Mr. Brehgert. That's what made it so hard.\"\n\n\"I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he\ntook upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in\nLondon. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of\nit, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him;--but I was deceived as\nmuch as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside\nof our house. The long and the short of it is that I shall lose\nsomething about sixty thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That's a large sum of money.\"\n\n\"Very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my\ncorrespondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to\npoint out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told\nyou.\"\n\nThis reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr.\nLongestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most\ndeserving of censure; but Mr. Longestaffe did not know how to\npronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at\nthe present time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in the\narrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to\nquarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal\ndignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the\nfact.\n\n\"It was so,\" said Brehgert.\n\n\"No doubt;\"--and Mr. Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.\n\n\"Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good\nenough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would\nmaintain a second house when we should be married.\"\n\n\"It was impossible,\" said Mr. Longestaffe,--meaning to assert that\nsuch hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question.\n\n\"It would have been quite possible as things were when that\nproposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which\nI afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend,\nI found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present,\nand I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe.\"\n\n\"There were other reasons,\" muttered Mr. Longestaffe, in a suppressed\nvoice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to\nconvey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence.\n\n\"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe\ndid me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which I have not\nthe slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine\nherself almost exclusively to that reason.\"\n\n\"Why mention this now, Mr. Brehgert; why mention this now? The\nsubject is painful.\"\n\n\"Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longestaffe; and because\nI wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it\nis not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman.\"\nMr. Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then\nbowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could\nfrom so dubious an oracle. \"I am sure,\" continued Brehgert, \"that I\nbehaved like an honest man; and I didn't quite like that the matter\nshould be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself.\"\n\n\"Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended.\"\n\n\"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to mend.\"\nFinishing the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to\ntake his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use\nall the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the\nMelmotte affairs.\n\nAs soon as he was gone Mr. Longestaffe opened the door and walked\nabout the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to\ncleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told\nhimself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! How vulgar\nhad the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how\nlittle grateful for the honour which Mr. Longestaffe had conferred\nupon him by asking him to dinner! Yes;--yes! A horrid Jew! Were not\nall Jews necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr. Longestaffe was aware\nthat in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to\nquarrel with Mr. Brehgert.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIX.\n\n\"THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.\"\n\n\nIt was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical work\non the Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and given to\nthe world. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was\nas far back as in February that she had solicited the assistance of\ncertain of her literary friends who were connected with the daily and\nweekly press. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more or\nless zealous aid, so that the \"Criminal Queens\" had been regarded\nin the trade as one of the successful books of the season. Messrs.\nLeadham and Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a\nfourth and fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements\nto give testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury's\nbook was about the greatest historical work which had emanated from\nthe press in the present century. With this object a passage was\nextracted even from the columns of the \"Evening Pulpit,\"--which\nshowed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connected\nwith the establishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter. Lady Carbury\nhad suffered something in the struggle. What efforts can mortals make\nas to which there will not be some disappointment? Paper and print\ncannot be had for nothing, and advertisements are very costly. An\nedition may be sold with startling rapidity, but it may have been but\na scanty edition. When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and\nLoiter their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a\nfear on their part that there would not probably be a third,--unless\nsome unforeseen demand should arise,--she repeated to herself those\nwell-known lines from the satirist,--\n\n   \"Oh, Amos Cottle, for a moment think\n    What meagre profits spread from pen and ink.\"\n\nBut not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to further\nattempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her\n\"Criminal Queens\" before she was busy on another work; and although\nthe last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble,\nand sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than\nonce forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her,\nstill she had persevered. From day to day, with all her cares heavy\nupon her, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so many\nlines should be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them\nbe what it might. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that they\nmight be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,--terms\nnot very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the\nmanuscript by their reader. The smallness of the sum offered, and\nthe want of certainty, and the pain of the work in her present\ncircumstances, had all been felt by her to be very hard. But she had\npersevered, and the novel was now complete.\n\nIt cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special tale\nto tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr. Loiter\nhad told her that upon the whole novels did better than anything\nelse. She would have written a volume of sermons on the same\nencouragement, and have gone about the work exactly after the same\nfashion. The length of her novel had been her first question. It must\nbe in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages.\nBut what fewest number of words might be supposed sufficient to fill\na page? The money offered was too trifling to allow of very liberal\nmeasure on her part. She had to live, and if possible to write\nanother novel,--and, as she hoped, upon better terms,--when this\nshould be finished. Then what should be the name of her novel; what\nthe name of her hero; and above all what the name of her heroine? It\nmust be a love story of course; but she thought that she would leave\nthe complications of the plot to come by chance,--and they did come.\n\"Don't let it end unhappily, Lady Carbury,\" Mr. Loiter had said,\n\"because though people like it in a play, they hate it in a book. And\nwhatever you do, Lady Carbury, don't be historical. Your historical\nnovel, Lady Carbury, isn't worth a--\" Mr. Loiter stopping himself\nsuddenly, and remembering that he was addressing himself to a lady,\nsatisfied his energy at last by the use of the word \"straw.\" Lady\nCarbury had followed these instructions with accuracy.\n\nThe name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur to\nthe authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itself\nand was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title,\naltogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellation\nmight best suit her work when its purpose should have declared\nitself. A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which by\nany other name will smell as sweet. \"The Faultless Father,\" \"The\nMysterious Mother,\" \"The Lame Lover,\"--such names as that she was\naware would be useless now. \"Mary Jane Walker,\" if she could be very\nsimple, would do, or \"Blanche De Veau,\" if she were able to maintain\nthroughout a somewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. But\nas she considered that she could best deal with rapid action and\nstrange coincidences, she thought that something more startling and\ndescriptive would better suit her purpose. After an hour's thought a\nname did occur to her, and she wrote it down, and with considerable\nenergy of purpose framed her work in accordance with her chosen\ntitle, \"The Wheel of Fortune!\" She had no particular fortune in her\nmind when she chose it, and no particular wheel;--but the very idea\nconveyed by the words gave her the plot which she wanted. A young\nlady was blessed with great wealth, and lost it all by an uncle,\nand got it all back by an honest lawyer, and gave it all up to a\ndistressed lover, and found it all again in the third volume. And the\nlady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady Carbury as never having\nbeen heard before either in the world of fact or in that of fiction.\n\nAnd now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son was\nstill hanging about the house in a condition that would break any\nmother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she\nregarded all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finished\nher work, and having just written the last words in which the final\nglow of enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine\nwhose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her\nright hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for\nthe task, and had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat\nwith her hand near the pile, she did give herself credit for her\ndiligence. Whether the work might have been better done she never\nasked herself. I do not think that she prided herself much on the\nliterary merit of the tale. But if she could bring the papers to\npraise it, if she could induce Mudie to circulate it, if she could\nmanage that the air for a month should be so loaded with \"The Wheel\nof Fortune,\" as to make it necessary for the reading world to have\nread or to have said that it had read the book,--then she would pride\nherself very much upon her work.\n\nAs she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr. Alf\nwas announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight at\nseeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a\ntime,--when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr. Alf!\nMr. Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was not\npeculiarly occupied just at present. \"The Emperor has left Europe\nat last,\" he said. \"Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and\nthe inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of\ninterest to-day.\" Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book,\nrather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself\nknown. Oh, if she could only get Mr. Alf! She had tried it before,\nand had failed lamentably. She was well aware of that; and she had\na deep-seated conviction that it would be almost impossible to get\nMr. Alf. But then she had another deep-seated conviction, that that\nwhich is almost impossible may possibly be done. How great would be\nthe glory, how infinite the service! And did it not seem as though\nProvidence had blessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr.\nAlf to her just at the one moment at which she might introduce the\nsubject of her novel without seeming premeditation?\n\n\"I am so tired,\" she said, affecting to throw herself back as though\nstretching her arms out for ease.\n\n\"I hope I am not adding to your fatigue,\" said Mr. Alf.\n\n\"Oh dear no. It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six\nmonths. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at\nwhich I have been working, oh, with such diligence!\"\n\n\"Oh,--a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?\"\n\n\"You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I have done my part\nof the work. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Alf?\"\n\n\"I? Oh dear no; I never write anything.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most.\nOne becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! One loves\nthe loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion those\nwho are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one\nis tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own\npathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at\none's own sagacity and knowledge.\"\n\n\"How very nice!\"\n\n\"But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the\ncoin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural.\nThe heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found\nto-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so\ncheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second\nreading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument,\" and she\nput her hand upon the manuscript; \"to-day I feel it to be only too\nheavy for a gravestone!\"\n\n\"One's judgment about one's-self always does vacillate,\" said Mr. Alf\nin a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.\n\n\"And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge\ncorrectly of one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be\nhonest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics.\"\n\n\"Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady\nCarbury,--at least not as far as I have observed the business. It is\nincapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is the\nsin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a\nprofessed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone to\nprofessed critics. I think that when I gave up the 'Evening Pulpit,'\nI left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as\nknowing their business.\"\n\n\"You given up the 'Pulpit'? asked Lady Carbury with astonishment,\nreadjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any\nand if so what advantage might be taken of Mr. Alf's new position. He\nwas no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility\nwould no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. Might he\nnot be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not\nsucceed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground\nbefore him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor\nstruggling woman?\n\n\"Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course\nthat I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new\nmember has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand\nagain.\"\n\n\"And you are no longer an editor?\"\n\n\"I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples\nof those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime\nagainst the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while\nI was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course\nI know where it came from.\"\n\n\"Where did it come from?\"\n\n\"Where should it come from but the 'Breakfast Table'? Broune and I\nhave been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I\nknow he is the most jealous.\"\n\n\"That is so little,\" said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of\nMr. Broune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour Mr.\nAlf.\n\n\"It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in\nParliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capable\nas an editor.\"\n\n\"No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you.\"\n\n\"The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double\nwork. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the\npaper. I almost regret it.\"\n\n\"I dare say you do,\" said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious\nto talk about her own affairs instead of his. \"I suppose you still\nretain an interest in the paper?\"\n\n\"Some pecuniary interest;--nothing more.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Alf,--you could do me such a favour!\"\n\n\"Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will.\" False-hearted,\nfalse-tongued man! Of course he knew at the moment what was the\nfavour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up his\nmind that he would not do as he was asked.\n\n\"Will you?\" And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she poured\nforth the words of her prayer. \"I never asked you to do anything for\nme as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it\nright, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am\nsure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace.\nI never complained. Did I?\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"But now that you have left it yourself,--if you would have the\n'Wheel of Fortune' done for me,--really well done!\"\n\n\"The 'Wheel of Fortune'!\"\n\n\"That is the name of my novel,\" said Lady Carbury, putting her hand\nsoftly upon the manuscript. \"Just at this moment it would be the\nmaking of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but know\nhow I want such assistance!\"\n\n\"I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady\nCarbury.\"\n\n\"Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it\ncertain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know.\nI have taken so much pains with it.\"\n\n\"Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits.\"\n\n\"Don't say that, Mr. Alf. The 'Evening Pulpit' is like,--oh, it is\nlike,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before\nit? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it\ndone. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred\ncopies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore.\" Mr. Alf\nlooked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. \"The paper stands\nso high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is\nasking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The\nthing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives.\"\n\n\"I do not think that it has ever been done by the 'Evening Pulpit.'\"\n\n\"I have seen books praised.\"\n\n\"Of course you have.\"\n\n\"I think I saw a novel spoken highly of.\"\n\nMr. Alf laughed. \"Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object\nof the 'Pulpit' to cry down novels?\"\n\n\"I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here.\nI would be so thankful;--so grateful.\"\n\n\"My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing\nto do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary\nvirtue.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said, not quite understanding what he meant.\n\n\"The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the\njustice of my successor.\"\n\n\"I shall never know your successor.\"\n\n\"But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling\nwith the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for\nmy sister.\" Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. \"Send the book out,\nand let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it\npraised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been\neulogised as a mark of friendship.\"\n\n\"No, I shan't,\" said Lady Carbury. \"I don't believe that anything\nlike real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends.\nI don't know how they manage it, but they do.\" Mr. Alf shook his\nhead. \"Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have\nbeen a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the\n'New Cleopatra' is a very handsome woman.\" Lady Carbury must have\nbeen worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far\nto lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alf the double charge of\nbeing too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed\nthe justice of his columns to that improper affection.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Of course you have been a dragon of virtue.\"]\n\n\n\"At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you\nallude,\" said Mr. Alf, getting up to take his leave; \"and I am quite\nsure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be any\nsuch lady and any such book,--had never seen her!\" And so Mr. Alf\ndeparted.\n\nLady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also with\nMr. Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the\nattempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger.\nShe had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any\npossible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which\nshe had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat\nweeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of\nMr. Alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What\nlies he had told her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen.\nBut the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than\nhis lies. No doubt the \"Pulpit\" had two objects in its criticisms.\nOther papers probably had but one. The object common to all papers,\nthat of helping friends and destroying enemies, of course prevailed\nwith the \"Pulpit.\" There was the second purpose of enticing readers\nby crushing authors,--as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged\nwhen executions were done in public. But neither the one object nor\nthe other was compatible with that Aristidean justice which Mr. Alf\narrogated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heart\nthat Mr. Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, and\nthen lose his seat.\n\nOn the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs.\nLeadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect\nwhich seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work\nof six months; her very blood and brains,--the concentrated essence\nof her mind,--as she would say herself when talking with energy of\nher own performances; and Mr. Leadham pitched it across to a clerk,\napparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the\nparcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his work\nshould be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands,\nand held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited within\nthe very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it\nshould be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! Those scraps of paper, so\neasily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be\nacknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their\nweight in gold! If \"Robinson Crusoe\" had been lost! If \"Tom Jones\"\nhad been consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may be\nanother \"Robinson Crusoe,\"--a better than \"Tom Jones\"? \"Will it be\nsafe there?\" asked Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Quite safe,--quite safe,\" said Mr. Leadham, who was rather busy,\nand who perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and\namount of her authorship seemed to him to require.\n\n\"It seemed to be,--put down there,--under the counter!\"\n\n\"That's quite right, Lady Carbury. They're left there till they're\npacked.\"\n\n\"Packed!\"\n\n\"There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's\ndown in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack.\"\n\n\"Do they go by post, Mr. Leadham?\"\n\n\"Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the\nexpense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this\ntime of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the\nwinter.\" Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by\nlong sea to Glasgow!\n\nThat evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to\nher. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed\nbetween Lady Carbury and the editor of the \"Morning Breakfast Table,\"\nwhich almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further\nliterary favour. She fully recognised,--no woman perhaps more\nfully,--the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance\nwhich might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for\nstruggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even\nat every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, that\nshe hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her\nmistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had\nasked her to marry him, for which,--though she had refused him,--she\nfelt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had\nlent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued\ncounsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her she would accept\nhis kindness on her knees,--but even she could not bring herself to\nask to have this added to his other favours. Her first word to him\nwas about Mr. Alf. \"So he has given up the paper?\"\n\n\"Well, yes;--nominally.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody\nlikes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As\nfor Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch\nMelmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about\nthe forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a\ncandidate as they'll get now?\"\n\n\"He was here yesterday.\"\n\n\"And full of triumph, I suppose?\"\n\n\"He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new\nbook,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing\nfurther to do with the paper.\"\n\n\"He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say.\"\n\n\"That was just it. Of course I did not believe him.\"\n\n\"Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we\ncan't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured.\nLet me see,--what is the name?\"\n\n\"'The Wheel of Fortune.'\" Lady Carbury as she told the title of her\nnew book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed of it.\n\n\"Let them send it early,--a day or two before it's out, if they can.\nI can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will\ngo to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye.\nGod bless you.\" And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as\nthough the old susceptibility were returning to him.\n\nAs she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all,--thinking\nof her own circumstances and of his kindness,--it did not occur\nto her to call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had\nmistaken her man when she had so regarded him. That first and\nonly kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so\nmuch derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so\nhaughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. Through it\nall the man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that\nsuch a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she in all\nher tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of\nbecoming his wife?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XC.\n\nHETTA'S SORROW.\n\n\nWhen Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was\ngiven to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend\nin any way to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over\nhalf-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it possible\nthat she could be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had\nsinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom\nhe had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at\nwhich he was becoming engaged to her,--but also that he had done this\nin such a manner as to make his offence known to all her friends.\nPerhaps she had been too quick;--but there was the fact that with\nher own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man\nshould be rejected. The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carbury\nknew that it was so. After this it was, she thought, impossible that\nshe should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was\nunchanged. Roger Carbury should certainly know that, if he ever asked\nher further question on the matter. She would never deny it; and\nthough she knew that the man had behaved badly,--having entangled\nhimself with a nasty American woman,--yet she would be true to him as\nfar as her own heart was concerned.\n\nAnd now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. He said\nthat he could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his\nletter with entreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his\nreproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. It was too\nlate now to remedy the evil; but she was not quite sure within her\nown bosom that she had not been unjust to him. The more she thought\nof it the more puzzled her mind became. Had she quarrelled with him\nbecause he had once been in love with Mrs. Hurtle, or because she had\ngrounds for regarding Mrs. Hurtle as her present rival? She hated\nMrs. Hurtle, and she was very angry with him in that he had ever been\non affectionate terms with a woman she hated;--but that had not been\nthe reason put forward by her for quarrelling with him. Perhaps it\nwas true that he, too, had of late loved Mrs. Hurtle hardly better\nthan she did herself. It might be that he had been indeed constrained\nby hard circumstances to go with the woman to Lowestoft. Having so\ngone with her, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected;--for\nhow can it be that a man who is engaged shall be allowed to travel\nabout the country with another woman to whom also he was engaged a\nfew months back? But still there might be hardship in it. To her, to\nHetta herself, the circumstances were very hard. She loved the man\nwith all her heart. She could look forward to no happiness in life\nwithout him. But yet it must be so.\n\nAt the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs. Hurtle herself\nif she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course\nhe had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to\nMrs. Hurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or\nfour days,--unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it\nfrom herself was possible,--and had been read and re-read till she\nknew every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could\nhear the story as it might be told by Mrs. Hurtle, a good deal that\nwas now dark might become light to her. As she continued to read the\nletter, and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned\nfrom her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger.\nPaul had of course behaved badly, very badly,--but had it not been\nfor them she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had\ndriven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could\nnow see no escape. There had been a plot against her, and she was a\nvictim. In the first dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story\nof the American woman,--which had, at the moment, struck her with\na horror which was now becoming less and less every hour,--she had\nfallen head foremost into the trap laid for her. She acknowledged to\nherself that it was too late to recover her ground. She was, at any\nrate, almost sure that it must be too late. But yet she was disposed\nto do battle with her mother and her cousin in the matter--if\nonly with the object of showing that she would not submit her own\nfeelings to their control. She was savage to the point of rebellion\nagainst all authority. Roger Carbury would of course think that\nany communication between herself and Mrs. Hurtle must be most\nimproper,--altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago she thought\nso herself. But the world was going so hard with her, that she\nwas beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and\ndelicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom she\naltogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly\nstill loved her,--of that she was beginning to have no further\ndoubt,--accused her of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for\na corroboration of his story. She would appeal to Mrs. Hurtle. The\nwoman was odious, abominable, a nasty intriguing American female. But\nher lover desired that she should hear the woman's story; and she\nwould hear the story,--if the woman would tell it.\n\nSo resolving, she wrote as follows to Mrs. Hurtle, finding great\ndifficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither\ntoo little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrained\nby no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about\nherself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for\nits purpose.\n\n\n   MADAM,--\n\n   Mr. Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain\n   circumstances which have taken place between him and you.\n   It is right that I should tell you that I was a short time\n   since engaged to marry him, but that I have found myself\n   obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of\n   what I have been told as to his acquaintance with you. I\n   make this proposition to you, not thinking that anything\n   you will say to me can change my mind, but because he has\n   asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me\n   of injustice towards him. I do not wish to rest under\n   an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once\n   warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will make it my\n   business to call any afternoon you may name.\n\n   Yours truly,\n\n   HENRIETTA CARBURY.\n\n\nWhen the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but very\nmuch afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in\na newspaper! She had heard that everything was put into newspapers\nin America. What if this Mrs. Hurtle should send back to her some\nhorribly insolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother,\ninstead of herself! And then, again, if the American woman consented\nto receive her, would not the American woman, as a matter of course,\ntrample upon her with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter\naside, and almost determined that it should not be sent;--but at\nlast, with desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted\nit herself. She told no word of it to any one. Her mother, she\nthought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and\nmade her wretched for ever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy\nin her present distress. There was no friend who would sympathise\nwith her. She must do everything alone.\n\nMrs. Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she\nwould retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted.\nIt is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half\nresolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mind\nbefore she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she had\nassured herself that this should be the conclusion,--after she had\ntold Paul Montague that it should be so,--there came back upon her at\ntimes other half resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written\na letter to the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then\nabstained from sending it, and had then shown it to the man,--not\nintending to give it to him as a letter upon which he would have to\nact, but only that she might ask him whether, had he received it, he\nwould have said that he had not deserved it. Then she had parted with\nhim, refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had\ntold Mrs. Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. At\nthat moment everything was done that could be done. The game had been\nplayed and the stakes lost,--and she had schooled herself into such\nrestraint as to have abandoned all idea of vengeance. But from time\nto time there arose in her heart a feeling that such softness was\nunworthy of her. Who had ever been soft to her? Who had spared her?\nHad she not long since found out that she must fight with her very\nnails and teeth for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be\ntrodden into the dust? Had she not held her own among rough people\nafter a very rough fashion, and should she now simply retire that\nshe might weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? And she had\nbeen so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her own\nwrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph! There were\nmoments in which she thought that she could still seize the man by\nthe throat, where all the world might see her, and dare him to deny\nthat he was false, perjured, and mean.\n\nThen she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague,\nwritten at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and\nHetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement\nto Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his\nown story. It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had\nso long been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a\nfashion should write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to\nincrease either her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that\nit was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only\nnatural,--had almost told herself that it was right. She and this\nyoung Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking\na tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be\nwild,--fitter for the woods than for polished cities. It had been one\nof the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound\nby tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised man. The result\nhad been disastrous, as might have been expected. She was angry with\nhim,--almost to the extent of tearing him to pieces,--but she did not\nbecome more angry because he wrote to her of her rival.\n\nHer only present friend was Mrs. Pipkin, who treated her with the\ngreatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about\nthe lost lover. \"That letter was from Mr. Montague?\" said Mrs. Pipkin\non the morning after it had been received.\n\n\"How can you know that?\"\n\n\"I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come\nfrequent.\"\n\n\"It was from him. And why not?\"\n\n\"Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of his\nlife, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles\nme so much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs.\nHurtle?\"\n\n\"It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over,\nand there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on\nSaturday week.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle!\"\n\n\"I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came\nover here for a certain purpose, and that has--gone by. Now I may\njust go back again.\"\n\n\"I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has.\"\n\n\"I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin.\"\n\n\"I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind\nout free. I know it would me if I'd been served in that way.\"\n\n\"If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to\nthe gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never\nspeak of it again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs.\nPipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't\nonly my feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings\nonly, as their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a\ngodsend you've been to me this summer;--have I? I've paid everything,\nbutcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're\ngoing away!\" Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob.\n\n\"I suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go,\" said Mrs. Hurtle.\n\n\"She don't deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a word\nabout him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being\nbetter than Mrs. Buggins's children. That's all.\"\n\n\"She'll be all right when he has once got her home.\"\n\n\"And I shall be all alone by myself,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, with her\napron up to her eyes.\n\nIt was after this that Mrs. Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had\nas yet returned no answer to Paul Montague,--nor had she intended\nto send any written answer. Were she to comply with his request she\ncould do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than\nto him. And though she wrote no such letter she thought of it,--of\nthe words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which\nshe would have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to\nresolve whether she would tell the tale,--if she told it at all,--in\na manner to suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose\nutterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the\nshipwreck were she so minded. She could certainly have her revenge\nafter that fashion. But it was a woman's fashion, and, as such,\ndid not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurtle's feelings. A pistol or a\nhorsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and\nbitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge. If she\nabandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story of her\nwrongs to another woman.\n\nThen came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,--so like the\nletter of an Englishwoman, as Mrs. Hurtle said to herself. Mrs.\nHurtle smiled as she read the letter. \"I make this proposition not\nthinking that anything you can say to me can change my mind.\" Of\ncourse the girl's mind would be changed. The girl's mind, indeed,\nrequired no change. Mrs. Hurtle could see well enough that the girl's\nheart was set upon the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt but\nthat she could tell the story after such a fashion as to make it\nimpossible that the girl should marry him,--if she chose to do so.\n\nAt first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all.\nWhat was it to her? Let them fight their own lovers' battles out\nafter their own childish fashion. If the man meant at last to be\nhonest, there could be no doubt, Mrs. Hurtle thought, that the girl\nwould go to him. It would require no interference of hers. But after\na while she thought that she might as well see this English chit who\nhad superseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she had\ncondescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was to\nbe abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all\nthe injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word\nso as to smooth away the existing difficulties? Wild cat as she was,\nkindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wrote\nto Hetta making an appointment.\n\n\n   DEAR MISS CARBURY,--\n\n   If you could make it convenient to yourself to call here\n   either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and\n   four, I shall be very happy to see you.\n\n   Yours sincerely,\n\n   WINIFRID HURTLE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCI.\n\nTHE RIVALS.\n\n\nDuring these days the intercourse between Lady Carbury and her\ndaughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Hetta, thinking that\nshe was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to her\nmother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carbury watching her,\nbut not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her\ngirl's silence. She had assured herself, when she found that Hetta\nwas disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his\nbrooch, that \"things would come round,\" that Paul would be forgotten\nquickly,--or laid aside as though he were forgotten,--and that Hetta\nwould soon perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With\nsuch a prospect before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty\nas a mother to show no tendency to sympathise with her girl's sorrow.\nSuch heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them.\nWho were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, nor\npoverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifle\nand trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed.\nShe had never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within\nthe last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she\nreally liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her\nshoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be\na lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body,\nher heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the\nprocuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hope\nto be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chance\nnow offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was so\ndevoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her by\nharsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not\nspend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of\na fair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion\nthat she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to\nconstrain her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she\nwas severe and hard. But when she found how harsh her daughter could\nbe in response to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in\nretaliation,--she was almost frightened at what she herself was\ndoing. She had not known how stern and how enduring her daughter\ncould be. \"Hetta,\" she said, \"why don't you speak to me?\" On this\nvery day it was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurtle at Islington.\nShe had said no word of her intention to any one. She had chosen\nthe Friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the\nafternoon to her publisher. There should be no deceit. Immediately\non her return she would tell her mother what she had done. But she\nconsidered herself to be emancipated from control. Among them they\nhad robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to the robbery, but\nshe would submit to nothing else. \"Hetta, why don't you speak to me?\"\nsaid Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making\neach other unhappy.\"\n\n\"What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to\ninterest you except that wretched young man?\"\n\n\"None other at all,\" said Hetta obstinately.\n\n\"What folly it is,--I will not say only to speak like that, but to\nallow yourself to entertain such thoughts!\"\n\n\"How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after\nI had owned to you that I loved a man,--after I had owned it to him\nand, worst of all, to myself,--I could have myself separated from\nhim, and then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It\nis as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would\nbe to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me.\"\n\nThere was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the\nmother felt,--as she was intended to feel it,--but to which she could\nmake no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her son\nto feel any real affection for her daughter. \"You are ignorant of the\nworld, Hetta,\" she said.\n\n\"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate.\"\n\n\"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? In\nwhat little you see around you do you think that girls are generally\nable to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?\" She paused,\nbut Hetta made no answer to this. \"Marie Melmotte was as warmly\nattached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"Marie Melmotte!\"\n\n\"She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth is\nyou are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself,\nand find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can\nfor yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to\neat dry bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she\nthinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she\nhas a fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have\nnone she must allow herself to be chosen.\"\n\n\"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she\nlikes the man or not?\"\n\n\"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be\nsuitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was\nrich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin Roger, you\nknow--\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Hetta, getting up from her seat, \"you may as well\nbelieve me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin\nRoger. It is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you\nknow that I love that other man with my whole heart.\"\n\n\"How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost\ncontumely?\"\n\n\"I know nothing of any contumely. What reason have I to be offended\nbecause he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It\nhas been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that I\nhave any right whatever to be angry with Mr. Paul Montague.\" Having\nso spoken she walked out of the room without waiting for a further\nreply.\n\nIt was all very sad to Lady Carbury. She perceived now that she had\ndriven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague's\nsins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier\nwhich she had striven to construct between them. But that which\npained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which\npervaded all Hetta's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world\nwho could not be taught the folly of such idle dreams?\n\nThat afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of\nthe Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at\nKing's Cross. She had studied her geography, and she walked from\nthence to Islington. She knew well the name of the street and the\nnumber at which Mrs. Hurtle lived. But when she reached the door she\ndid not at first dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on\nto the end of the silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her\nthoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she\nwould commence her strange petition. And she endeavoured to dictate\nto herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to\nher. Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of\nreplying to a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the\nworst come to the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede\nher departure. Having gone to the end of the street, she returned\nwith a very quick step and knocked at the door. It was opened almost\nimmediately by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.\n\n\"Oh laws,--Miss Carbury!\" said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's\nface. \"Yes;--sure enough she must be Felix's sister.\" But Ruby did\nnot dare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her\nthat Sir Felix should not be her lover any more, and that John Crumb\nshould be allowed to return. But, nevertheless, her heart twittered\nas she showed Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room.\n\nThough it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil down.\nShe adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden\nfear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurtle rose from her chair and\ncame forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do\nso. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care,--simply, and in\nblack, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain\nor a flower. But with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so\nattired herself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought\nthat she would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first\nchoice, or that she was minded to teach the English girl that an\nAmerican woman might have graces of her own? As she came forward she\nwas gentle and soft in her movements, and a pleasant smile played\nround her mouth. Hetta at the first moment was almost dumbfounded by\nher beauty,--by that and by her ease and exquisite self-possession.\n\"Miss Carbury,\" she said with that low, rich voice which in old\ndays had charmed Paul almost as much as her loveliness, \"I need not\ntell you how interested I am in seeing you. May I not ask you to\nlay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?\"\nHetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a word, stood gazing\nat the woman when she had removed her veil. She had had no personal\ndescription of Mrs. Hurtle, but had expected something very different\nfrom this! She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big,\nwith fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they were both of\nthe same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes\nof the same colour. Hetta thought of all that at the moment,--but\nacknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such as\nthat which this woman owned. \"And so you have come to see me,\" said\nMrs. Hurtle. \"Sit down so that I may look at you. I am glad that you\nhave come to see me, Miss Carbury.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Sit down so that I may look at you.\"]\n\n\n\"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry.\"\n\n\"Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me I should\nhave declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to\nsee you. It is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming\nplaythings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving\nbadly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me\nfreely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were an\nAmerican I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is\nan Englishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do,\nor what can I say?\"\n\n\"He told me that you could tell me the truth.\"\n\n\"What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You\nhave quarrelled with him too. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"Certainly I have quarrelled with him.\"\n\n\"I am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I\nknow him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can\nbe full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself\nthe next. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such\ncaution with you. What is it, Miss Carbury?\"\n\nHetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. \"Mrs.\nHurtle,\" she said, \"I had never heard your name when he first asked\nme to be his wife.\"\n\n\"I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?\"\n\n\"Because,--oh, because--. Surely he ought, if it is true that he had\nonce promised to marry you.\"\n\n\"That certainly is true.\"\n\n\"And you were here, and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should have\nbeen very different to him had I known that,--that,--that--\"\n\n\"That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle interfering with him.\nThen you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?\"\n\n\"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me\nask you. I have not been unjust.\"\n\n\"I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think\nthat he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to\nhim is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury.\nTo me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think,\nundeserved misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be\nfor you to decide.\"\n\n\"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?\"\n\n\"Because I asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be\nill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not\nto have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here,\nMiss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he\nhad been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends\nlong before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my\nown part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I\nfollowed him here to England--because I loved him. I came after him,\nas perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He had\ntold me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and I\nhoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed,\nand I must return to my own country,--I will not say a broken-hearted\nwoman, for I will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with\na broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven\nhim; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough\nto punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into\nhim,--or I would; or a bullet,--or I would. He has reduced me to a\nnothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have\nsworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn\nwithout feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you\nchoose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of\njustice.\" Then she paused and looked up to Hetta as though expecting\na reply.\n\nBut Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come\nto hear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a\ncomfort to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in\norder that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover.\nShe had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof\nthat she had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that\nhowever false her lover might have been to this other woman he had\nbeen absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of\nPaul,--had seemed to intend to speak of him with the utmost severity;\nbut she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta.\nWhat was it to Hetta that her lover had been false to this American\nstranger? It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she\nshould be angry with her lover on that head. Mrs. Hurtle had told her\nthat she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to\navenge her rival's wrongs. In saying that Mrs. Hurtle had taught her\nto feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. It was\nall done now. If she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness\nof her demeanour, and then go, she could, when alone, make up her\nmind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she\nwould submit herself again to Paul Montague. She had only told\nherself that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him.\n\"You have been very kind,\" she said at last,--speaking only because\nit was necessary that she should say something.\n\n\"It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been\nso much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly\nto you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his\nwife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have\ntold you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself\nhave declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my\naccount of his treachery to me.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, do not say that of me!\"\n\n\"But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that\naccount. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned\nthere is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman,--and he\nlikes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world,\nwhich has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the\ntouch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions;\nbut that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough\nto acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak\nenough to forgive all his treachery.\" Hetta was now holding the woman\nby the hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. \"I am so glad to\nhave seen you,\" continued Mrs. Hurtle, \"so that I may know what his\nwife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then\nneither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifrid Hurtle. Tell\nhim that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be\nmore unkind to him than I can help.\"\n\nWhen Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she\nmust have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague\nagain,--and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his\nown. She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing\nthe woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was\nalone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty\nwas the face of that American female,--how rich and glorious her\nvoice in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and\nabove all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious\nwas her manner! That she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was\ncertain to Hetta, but that he or any man should have loved her and\nhave been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her,\nwas wonderful. And yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta\nCarbury, to this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own\ncause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.\n\nOf her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been\nunjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by\nrepentance and confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway\nstation she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she\nhad ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their\nacquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to\ndesire? No doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had\never touched her lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look\ninto her eyes with unrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give\nherself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as\nsnow on which no foot has trodden. But in taking him, all that she\nwanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. The\nfuture must be her own work. As to the \"now,\" she felt that Mrs.\nHurtle had given her sufficient assurance.\n\nShe must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When\nshe re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious\nto be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received\nwith favour,--but quite determined that nothing should shake her\npurpose. She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from\nthe boy at the door that Lady Carbury had returned.\n\n\"Hetta, wherever have you been?\" asked Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Mamma,\" she said, \"I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that\nI have been unjust to him.\"\n\n\"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind,\" said Lady Carbury, rising\nfrom her seat.\n\n\"Yes, mamma. I have been unjust, and I must do so.\"\n\n\"It will be asking him to come back to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, mamma:--that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he will\ncome, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be\nfriends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me my\nlove?\"\n\n\"You have sent him back his brooch,\" said Lady Carbury hoarsely.\n\n\"He shall give it me again. Hear what I have done. I have seen that\nAmerican lady.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hurtle!\"\n\n\"Yes;--I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman.\"\n\n\"And she has told you wonderful lies.\"\n\n\"Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothing\nin his favour.\"\n\n\"I can well believe that. What can any one say in his favour?\"\n\n\"But she told me that which has assured me that Mr. Montague has\nnever behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like\nI will show you the letter.\"\n\n\"Any letter to him, I will tear,\" said Lady Carbury, full of anger.\n\n\"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for\nmyself.\" Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left\nthe room without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that\nthe letter might be written.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCII.\n\nHAMILTON K. FISKER AGAIN.\n\n\nTen days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last\nchapter,--ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her\nlover, but in which she had received no reply,--when two gentlemen\nmet each other in a certain room in Liverpool, who were seen together\nin the same room in the early part of this chronicle. These were our\nyoung friend Paul Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton\nK. Fisker. Melmotte had died on the 18th of July, and tidings of the\nevent had been at once sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks\nbefore this Montague had written to his partner, giving his account\nof the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company,--describing\nits condition in England as he then believed it to be,--and urging\nFisker to come over to London. On receipt of a message from his\nAmerican correspondent he had gone down to Liverpool, and had\nthere awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend\nMr. Ramsbottom. In the mean time Hetta's letter was lying at the\nBeargarden, Paul having written from his club and having omitted to\ndesire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings. Just at this\nmoment things at the Beargarden were not well managed. They were\nindeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter,--which\nwould have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever\nbefore written.\n\n\"This is a terrible business,\" said Fisker, immediately on entering\nthe room in which Montague was waiting him. \"He was the last man I'd\nhave thought would be cut up in that way.\"\n\n\"He was utterly ruined.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't have been ruined,--and couldn't have thought so if he'd\nknown all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled\nhim through a'most anything if he'd have understood how to play it.\"\n\n\"We don't think much of the South Central here now,\" said Paul.\n\n\"Ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a big\nthing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of\ncourse, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte\nwould have had spirit.\"\n\n\"There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the\ndread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself.\"\n\n\"I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took him\nto be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself\nbecause I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with\na lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the\nbetter of him!\"\n\n\"I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco,\"\nsuggested Paul.\n\n\"Bu'st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu'st up?\nD'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like\nMelmotte blows his brains out in London?\"\n\n\"He took poison.\"\n\n\"Or p'ison either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'm\ngoing to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares\nare at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the\nmarket. I wired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own\ngame, and I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm\nsorry for him because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's\ndone 'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it,\nor will you come back to Frisco with me?\"\n\nIn answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would\nnot return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave\nhis partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great\nrailway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to\ndo with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased\nat the proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly,--nay,\ngenerously,--by his partner, having recognised the wisdom of that\ngreat commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail\namong associates of a certain class; but he had fully convinced\nhimself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner for Hamilton K.\nFisker. Fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a\nthorough contempt for scruples in others. According to his theory of\nlife, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their\nscruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into\nthe splendour of commercial wealth because he was free from such\nbondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That\nwhich he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his power.\nHe was anxious that his bond should be good, and his word equally\nso. But the work of robbing mankind in gross by magnificently false\nrepresentations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the\nambition of his life. How could a man so great endure a partnership\nwith one so small as Paul Montague? \"And now what about Winifrid\nHurtle?\" asked Fisker.\n\n\"What makes you ask? She's in London.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing\nthat he'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars.\"\n\n\"He's not dead then?\" muttered Paul.\n\n\"Dead!--no, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with him\nyet.\"\n\n\"But she divorced him.\"\n\n\"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to\nsay that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game\nbadly neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has\nput it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other\nways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer\nout of the wood.\"\n\n\"I'm not thinking of marrying her,--if you mean that.\"\n\n\"There was a talk about it in Frisco;--that's all. And I have heard\nHurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was\nhere with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these\ndays.\" To this Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both\nheard enough and said enough about Mrs. Hurtle.\n\nOn the following day the two men, who were still partners, went\ntogether to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the\narrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He put himself into communication\nwith Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch\nLane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company,\ncross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as\nthey were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls,\nfather and son, up to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had\nleft London a day or two before Melmotte's death,--having probably\nperceived that there was no further occasion for their services. To\nFisker's appeal Lord Alfred was proudly indifferent. Who was this\nAmerican that he should call upon a director of the London Company\nto appear? Does not every one know that a director of a company need\nnot direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even\ncondescend to answer Fisker's letter;--but he advised his son to run\nup to town. \"I should just go, because I'd taken a salary from the\nd---- Company,\" said the careful father, \"but when there I wouldn't\nsay a word.\" So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon\nthe scene.\n\nBut Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously\npaid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one\nhad visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the\nclerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had\nbecome a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be\nalone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do\nno more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good\ntaste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had\nbeen domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir Felix\nwould not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to\nthe daughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before\nhe went out to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame Melmotte's\npresence;--and he had not been there four days before he was aware\nthat in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the\nundoubted possessor of a large fortune.\n\nIn regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been induced\nto abstain from interfering,--giving up the right to all the man's\nplate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of\nthe coroner's verdict,--not from tenderness to Madame Melmotte, for\nwhom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors\nas poor Mr. Longestaffe and his son. But Marie's money was quite\ndistinct from this. She had been right in her own belief as to\nthis property, and had been right, too, in refusing to sign those\npapers,--unless it may be that that refusal led to her father's act.\nShe herself was sure that it was not so, because she had withdrawn\nher refusal, and had offered to sign the papers before her father's\ndeath. What might have been the ultimate result had she done so when\nhe first made the request, no one could now say. That the money\nwould have gone there could be no doubt. The money was now hers,--a\nfact which Fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which\nbelonged to him.\n\nPoor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief\nto her in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that\nwhich is and is not beneficial to those whom Death has bereaved of\na companion. It may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that\ngrief shall be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any\ninterference with it an additional trouble, and this is felt also in\nacute bodily pain, and in periods of terrible mental suffering. It\nmay also be, and, no doubt, often is the case, that the bereaved one\nchooses to affect such overbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain,\nbecause even such affectation has its own rights and privileges. But\nMadame Melmotte was neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to\nbe so crushed. She had been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe\nof the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for\nyears, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power,\nhad succumbed, and shown himself to be powerless against his own\nmisfortunes. She was a woman of very few words, and had spoken almost\nnone on this occasion even to her own daughter; but when Fisker came\nto her, and told her more than she had ever known before of her\nhusband's affairs, and spoke to her of her future life, and mixed for\nher a small glass of brandy-and-water warm, and told her that Frisco\nwould be the fittest place for her future residence, she certainly\ndid not find him to be intrusive.\n\nAnd even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost\nwon both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much,\nat least more than her mother, of the life to which she had been\nintroduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for her\nfather. She was prone to love,--though, perhaps, not prone to deep\naffection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he\nhad also been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially\ngrateful for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the\nother. Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she\nhad never known, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life,\nvacillating between knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and\na jewel the next, as the condition of things which was natural to\nher. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels\nand the knick-knacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she\nwas not beyond consolation, and she also found consolation in Mr.\nFisker's visits.\n\n\"I used to sign a paper every quarter,\" she said to Fisker, as they\nwere walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.\n\n\"You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to\nany one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money\nfor yourself.\"\n\n\"And can that be done over in California?\"\n\n\"Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you\nwithout the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it,\nif you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss\nMelmotte.\"\n\n\"And what's that?\"\n\n\"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how\nyou'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess.\nThough, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make\nup in the flavour.\" This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone,\nas though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco\nwould not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss\nMelmotte had been used.\n\n\"I hate swells,\" said Marie, flashing round upon him.\n\n\"Do you now?\"\n\n\"Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they\nsay,--and they don't say so many words either. They're never more\nthan half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate\nLondon.\"\n\n\"Do you now?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't I?\"\n\n\"I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?\"\n\n\"I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place.\"\n\n\"Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?\"\n\n\"Mr. Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?\"\n\n\"But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you\ndo come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know.\" Then he\ntook her gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly,\nbade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and\nMr. Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm\nbrandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the whole\nMadame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had\nbeen either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was\ncertainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.\n\n\"I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know,\" Fisker said\nto Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the\nSouth Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his\nfather's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed\namazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his\nperformances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to\nthis, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were\npresent. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury,\nLord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, who were all Directors;--but\nnone of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's\nletter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply.\n\"Dear Mr. Fisker,--I really don't know anything about it. Yours,\nNidderdale.\" Mr. Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely\ncovered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which\nthe reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether\neven Fisker perused to the end. \"Upon my word,\" continued Fisker,\n\"it's astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this\nkind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr.\nCroll?\"\n\n\"It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker,\" said the German.\n\n\"Nor anybody else's either,\" said the domineering American. \"Of\ncourse it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you\ninto a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at.\"\nMiles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he\nwould pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat,\nand that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very\nfew days;--or perhaps hours might suffice.\n\nBut Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater\nthe confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the\nprospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory\non this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had\ncertainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go\nto Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be\ncomfortable to him in more respects than one,--and need not be heard\nof again in these pages.\n\nWhen Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to\nbe nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities.\nVery many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had\nbeen robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had\nbeen robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to\nrob others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr. Brehgert,\nhad speculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost\nheavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes,\nwere able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very\nsad. Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and\nwas able, under Mr. Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new\ncareer. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his\nbankers', he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over\nan entirely new leaf. \"I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a\nmonth, and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to\nhim, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong.\nI like Squercum.\"\n\n\"Won't he rob you, old fellow?\" suggested Nidderdale.\n\n\"Of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. One has\nto be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If\nhe'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think\nI can get along.\" Let us hope that Mr. Squercum was merciful, and\nthat Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous\nresolutions.\n\nBut these things did not arrange themselves till late in the\nwinter,--long after Mr. Fisker's departure for California. That,\nhowever, was protracted till a day much later than he had anticipated\nbefore he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame\nMelmotte's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The\nfurniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame\nMelmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially\nher own property;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no\nattempt was made to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to\ngive them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever\nshe wanted for her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's\nwidow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon\nher jewels. It was agreed between her and Fisker that they were to\nbe taken to New York. \"You'll get as much there as in London, if you\nlike to part with them; and nobody 'll say anything about it there.\nYou couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world\ntalking about it.\"\n\nIn all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands\nwith the most absolute confidence,--and, indeed, with a confidence\nthat was justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman\nthat Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's\nthinking, Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met,--so\ninfinitely pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord\nAlfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself\nthan Miles Grendall, understanding her so much better than any man\nhad ever done,--especially when he supplied her with those small warm\nbeakers of sweet brandy-and-water. \"I shall do whatever he tells me,\"\nshe said to Marie. \"I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this\ncountry.\"\n\n\"I'm willing to go,\" said Marie. \"I don't want to stay in London.\"\n\n\"I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?\"\n\n\"I don't know anything about that,\" said Marie. \"A man may be very\nwell without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry\nanybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything\nelse. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you\nthink Fisker'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he!\nHe ain't slow enough for that.\"\n\n\"I think he's a very nice young man,\" said Madame Melmotte.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCIII.\n\nA TRUE LOVER.\n\n\nHetta Carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up her\nmind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter\nfull of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all\nthe details of her meeting with Mrs. Hurtle, and bidding him come\nback to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had\nunfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to her\nfrom that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through\nthe demoralisation of that once perfect establishment, the letter\nnever reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he\nwas justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his\nappeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make further\nstruggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs.\nHurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all\ninimical to him. Mrs. Hurtle, though she had declared that she would\nnot rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter.\nRoger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as\na traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and\nalways would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she\nloved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of\nhis admiration. And Paul, though he did not probably analyze very\ncarefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively\nthat, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects could\nnot be altogether hopeless. And yet how should he continue the\nstruggle? With what weapons should he carry on the fight? The writing\nof letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the\nperson to whom they are written will not answer them; and the calling\nat a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a\nvisitor admission, becomes, disagreeable,--if not degrading,--after a\ntime.\n\nBut Hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to one\nwho received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly and\nwith precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at once\ncommunicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her\ncousin Roger. Though she would not recognise Roger as a lover, she\ndid acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special\nfriend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself\ndid, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote to\nher cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that\nshe was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute\nsincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and\nmost ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on to\ndeclare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in\nthis world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her\ndearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend\nher an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters\nnever affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what\nthey do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger\nCarbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall\nat Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had\ntheir full weight with him. He did not try to convince himself\nthat all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might\nsoon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting\nadmonitions. To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta's letter\nsitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for\nhimself. Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was\naltogether incapable of change,--though he could not rally himself\nsufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life\nwithout the girl whom he had loved,--yet he told himself what he\nbelieved to be the truth. At last he owned directly and plainly that,\nwhether happy or unhappy, he must do without her. He had let time\nslip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love.\nHe must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he could\nof such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if\nhe acknowledged this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashion\nshould he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so\nlow?\n\nAt this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it were\npossible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself\nto think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself\nthat the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive\nthe man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that\nin comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly\nbe worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once\nable to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should\nstill be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware\nthat such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it\nwere to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must\nbe to him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. In her\nfavour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was\nso sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir\nin spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All\nthis must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give\nhis consent to the marriage. In such case Carbury must be the home\nof the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it\nso. There must be born the future infant to whose existence he was\nalready looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might\nthere find comfort. In such case, though he should never again be\nable to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live\nwith him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta\naltogether,--as though there had been no fault; and he must strive to\nforgive the man's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to be\ngenerous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know\nhow to be just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to\nno extent ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great\nprayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from\nasking himself whether it could really be intended that he should\nforgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague!\nNevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta\nshould be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated\nas though he were pardoned. As for himself,--the chances of the world\nhad been unkind to him, and he would submit to them!\n\nNevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt,\nwith some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of such\na letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter to\nhimself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demand\nany answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain\nreasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to\nthe conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had\nasked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger\nfelt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than\nby any positive action. Roger's influence with her mother was the\nassistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence\ncould hardly be given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all\nthis, Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would\nhave the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all\nagain, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his\nheart to agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people,\nand perhaps learn something further from their manner and their\nwords, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his\nown hopes and the completion of theirs.\n\nHe went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours served\nhim much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in\nthe world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn\nover things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided\nprobably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any\nprocess of ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought.\nBut to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the\nbase so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us.\nSuch a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind,--who\nwhen he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a\nbasket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore\nhis charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he\nwalked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel,\nlooking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty\nof the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to\ninterfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than\nhimself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath,\nand had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.\n\nThe next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he\nknocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady\nCarbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether \"the ladies\"\nwere at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was\nat once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She\nhurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed\nher. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed\nher hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never\ntreated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately\nthat such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance\nwith her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and\ndearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother,\nwas certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest\nlove,--if he would only consent not to be her lover. \"Oh, Roger, I am\nso glad to see you,\" she said, escaping gently from his arms.\n\n\"I could not write an answer, and so I came.\"\n\n\"You always do the kindest thing that can be done.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now,--kind or\nunkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been\nall the world to me.\"\n\n\"Do not reproach me,\" she said.\n\n\"No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I\nshould not have come had I intended to reproach any one.\"\n\n\"I love you so much for saying that.\"\n\n\"Let it be as you wish it,--if it must. I have made up my mind to\nbear it, and there shall be an end of it.\" As he said this he took\nher by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to\nweep. \"And still you will be all the world to me,\" he continued, with\nhis arm round her waist. \"As you will not be my wife, you shall be my\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"I will be your sister, Roger.\"\n\n\"My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I\nwill hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for\nthe young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child.\" As\nhe thus spoke her tears were renewed. \"I have planned it all out in\nmy mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to\nyour happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that to\nmake you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life.\"\n\nIt had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the\nman to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even\ncondescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come\nback to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness\nof her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude,\nshe did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague.\n\"Have you seen him?\" she said in a whisper.\n\n\"Seen whom?\"\n\n\"Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am\nhere.\"\n\n\"But you will be his friend?\"\n\n\"Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault\nshall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly as\nsuch things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till\nI had seen you.\" At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury\nentered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked\nfirst at her daughter and then at Roger. \"I have come up,\" said he,\n\"to signify my adhesion to this marriage.\" Lady Carbury's face fell\nvery low. \"I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have\nlearned at last that it could not have been so.\"\n\n\"Why should you say so?\" exclaimed Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Pray, pray, mamma--,\" Hetta began, but was unable to find words with\nwhich to go on with her prayer.\n\n\"I do not know that it need be so at all,\" continued Lady Carbury. \"I\nthink it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me\nto press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own\nwishes.\"\n\n\"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Yes; mamma,--yes,\" cried Hetta boldly. \"It is so. I am engaged to\nhim.\"\n\n\"I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my\nconsent,--nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the\nconsent of Mr. Montague himself.\"\n\n\"Mamma!\"\n\n\"Paul Montague!\" ejaculated Roger Carbury. \"The consent of Paul\nMontague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no\ndoubt as to that.\"\n\n\"There has been a quarrel,\" said Lady Carbury.\n\n\"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?\"\n\n\"I wrote to him,--and he has not answered me,\" said Hetta piteously.\n\nThen Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what\nhad taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. \"The\nmarriage is on every account objectionable,\" she said at last. \"His\nmeans are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been\nvery bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who\ndestroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without\nmy sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no\nnotice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he\nmade her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his\nresentment may be continued.\"\n\nHetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger\nstood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady\nCarbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow to\nanswer, considering what he might best say. \"I think I had better see\nhim,\" he replied. \"If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's\nletter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage\nof such an accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may be\nmanaged. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was\ndue to no fault of his.\" At this moment he could not but remember\nLady Carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte,\nbut he was too generous to say a word on that head. \"I will see him,\nLady Carbury, and then I will come to you again.\"\n\nLady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to\nsee Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into\nthe scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was\ntoo powerful in his honesty and greatness of character,--and had\nbeen too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the\nfamily,--for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had\nhe persevered, Hetta would have become his wife.\n\nIt was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had\nonly then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,--whose subsequent\ndoings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.\n\n\"I don't know what letter you mean,\" said Paul.\n\n\"You wrote to her?\"\n\n\"Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was\none which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me,\nand had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately\nheard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with\nMrs. Hurtle.\" Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not\nunderstanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendly\nmission.\n\n\"She did answer your letter.\"\n\n\"I have not had a line from her;--not a word!\"\n\n\"She did answer your letter.\"\n\n\"What did she say to me?\"\n\n\"Nay,--you must ask her that.\"\n\n\"But if she will not see me?\"\n\n\"She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you this\nalso;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she\ndoes wish to see.\"\n\n\"Is that true?\" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.\n\n\"I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly\ncome on such a mission if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and\nneed have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of\nher mother.\"\n\n\"She is stronger than her mother,\" said Paul.\n\n\"I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment\nRoger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had\nnot communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face\nhad been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul,\nremembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend\nhad written him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would\nprobably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with\nall the patience which he could summon to his assistance.\n\n\"You know what my feelings have been,\" Roger began, \"and how deeply\nI have resented what I thought to be an interference with my\naffections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of\nit may be--\"\n\n\"I have never quarrelled with you,\" Paul began.\n\n\"If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No anger\nbetween you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to\ninterfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love\nbetter than all the rest of the world put together.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Paul.\n\n\"And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She\nshall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shall\nbe my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent\nto make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think,\ntoo well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could\nhave from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do\nthis because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object\nof mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present.\nBy-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more\nequable temper.\" Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving\nPaul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to\nhim.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCIV.\n\nJOHN CRUMB'S VICTORY.\n\n\nIn the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for\nthe marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had\nbeen up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had\nsubmitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the\nworld, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future\nhusband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost\nmunificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a\npurple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a\nformer occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against\nRuby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed\nby Mrs. Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix\nwas supposed to be still \"all one mash of gore,\" he blandly smiled,\nremarking that no man could be much the worse for a \"few sich taps\nas them.\" He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few\nhours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby\nshould be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined\nthe suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the\ninfluence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb\nwas of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted\nthat with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally\nbeen promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was\nof opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the\nfeast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be\ntalked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. When both the\nladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict\naccordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed\nan opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage,\nthe ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. \"It ain't jist\nlike other folks, after all as we've been through,\" said he,--meaning\nprobably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was\nentitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But\nwhether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by\nhimself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that\nhe would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle,\nand at last succeeded in inducing Mrs. Hurtle to promise that she\nwould bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion.\n\nThen it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of\ncourse essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion\nas to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies\nwould be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She\nwas brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired\nagain among the children, having only expressed one wish of her\nown,--namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with\nthe affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she\nwas summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next\nTuesday,--making his proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough\nmeat for all Bungay to eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no\nother cause for delay. \"That's out of the question,\" Ruby had said\ndecisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her Mr. Crumb\nyielded with a good grace. He did not himself appreciate the reasons\ngiven because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at\nany shop. But Mrs. Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know\nanything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he only\nscratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford fair,\nagreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence\nof business. If Tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he\nthought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the\nfair, but when Mrs. Pipkin told him that he must not interfere any\nfurther, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London\nlong enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked\nhim up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how\nglorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last\nachieved.\n\nBefore the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive\nhis granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When\nJohn Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that\nhe had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups\nand downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed\nday, all Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon\nMr. Daniel Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long\ntime, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and\nthat she had run away with the baronite. But this assertion was\nmet by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was\nabsolutely driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that\nmany lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite\nready a fortnight since to take away her character. But it had become\nan acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour\nto punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had,\nat any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming\na young lady; and so strong was the general belief in John Crumb,\nthat Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips\nin the town. And though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular\nbehaviour up in London might be whispered by the Bungay ladies among\nthemselves, still the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general,\nand his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not\nstand against it. \"I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my\nown,\" he said to Joe Mixet, the baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre\nFarm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of Bungay.\n\n\"She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles,\" said the baker.\n\n\"No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with\nMrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give\n'em a breakfast.\"\n\n\"She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles.\nAnd she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr.\nRuggles.\"\n\n\"I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat,\" said the farmer.\n\nBut he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his\nopposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at\nthe King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no\nauthority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the\nbill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the\nfive hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He\nwas very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was\naltogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he\nwas reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out\nof her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not\ncontradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to\nearn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was\nnot to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as\nmuch a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But,\nin return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did\nat last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his\ndeath,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to\nbe almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the\nconsumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover,\nwas persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the\nnight previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was\nmade by Mr. Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went\nout in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an\noverpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his\neloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not,\nhowever, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar\nand box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs.\nPipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room\nat the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs.\nHurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be\nproperly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm.\n\nOn the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded\nthe bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not\nbe among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a\nlover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence\ncan give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such\ninterrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance\nof his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. \"You\ncould come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it,\"\nsuggested Crumb.\n\n\"Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be\nsure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?\"\nJohn shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. \"It\nwas only just something for her to say. What have I done that she\nshould object to me?\"\n\n\"You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?\"\n\n\"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just\nbecause I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's\nAcre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice\nnothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back\nbecause Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and\nI are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I\nmust know the reason why.\" But John Crumb's heart was too big for\njealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best\nman, undertaking to \"square it all\" with Ruby, after the ceremony.\n\nHe met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent\nin his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but\nlittle. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in\nsubsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. \"Ain't she bootiful\nnow?\" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great\ndelight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion.\nRuby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she\nturned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those\nonly who were within a yard or two could hear her; \"He is such a\nfool!\" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and\nafterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre;\nin the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green\ncutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his\nmarriage. \"Thou'rt come back then, Ruby,\" said the old man.\n\n\"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather,\" said the girl.\n\n\"So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that's my name.\"\n\n\"I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I\never want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that\ngirl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that.\"\n\n\"Grandfather, that ain't true,\" said Ruby with energy. The old man\nmade no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the\nbedroom which they were both to occupy. \"Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you\nsay,\" pleaded Ruby, \"how was it possible for any girl to live with an\nold man like that?\"\n\n\"But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man\ninstead when you pleased.\"\n\n\"You mean John Crumb.\"\n\n\"Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby.\"\n\n\"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite;\nand the other man says nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Oh Ruby, Ruby,\" said Mrs. Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, \"I\nhope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor\na fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain.\"\n\nOn the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and\nhalf its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man.\nHe himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin\ninto the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would\nbring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any\ndisgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He\nsmiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his\nwhip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as\nthough he would have said, \"See, I've got her at last in spite of all\ndifficulties.\" Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would\nhave escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was\naltogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach.\n\"What's the odds?\" said Mrs. Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in\na room at the Inn just before they entered the church. \"Drat it,--you\nmake me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o'\nyou? Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round?\nManners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He\nmeans what he says, and I call that the best of good manners.\"\n\nRuby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled\nby outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was\nstanding there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his\nbutton-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain\nof her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself\nto utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman\nto catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently\nthat they were heard throughout the whole building. \"I, John,--take\nthee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day\nforrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;\" and so\non to the end. And when he came to the \"worldly goods\" with which he\nendowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been\nfixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by\nheart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before\nhim. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be\nmarried over and over again, every day for a week, had it been\npossible.\n\nAnd then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up\nthe broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm\nand Mrs. Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take\nhis wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see\na good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being\ncivil to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to\npass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted\nto the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had\nforgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker.\nWhen desiring that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had\nbeen in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the\noutward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some\none near her who knew how to behave himself. \"Mrs. Crumb, you have my\nbest wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness,\" said Joe Mixet\nin a whisper.\n\n\"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet.\"\n\n\"He's a good 'un; is he.\"\n\n\"Oh, I dare say.\"\n\n\"You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him,\nand I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one\nas a babby.\"\n\n\"A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet.\"\n\n\"And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he\ncan hold his own.\" Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated\nby her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many\npeople should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to\nthink so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance.\n\nAfter the breakfast, or \"bit of dinner,\" as John Crumb would call\nit, Mr. Mixet of course made a speech. \"He had had the pleasure of\nknowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being\nacquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons,\nand should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child.\"\n\"That's a downright story,\" said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs. Hurtle.\n\"And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of\nnature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood\nthat Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps\nthe present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young\ncouple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs.\nCrumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever\nwas; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among\n'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether\nMars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long\nthere would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to\npick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the\nwoman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb.\" The speech, of\nwhich only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by\nthe ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor\nRuby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber\nhad she not been certain that she would be brought back again.\n\n\n[Illustration: The happy bridegroom.]\n\n\nIn the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her\nback to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His\nhoneymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When\nshe was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and\nthinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife,\nshe did learn to respect him. \"Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as\nthough you meant it,\" he said, when the first fitting occasion\npresented itself.\n\n\"Oh, John,--what nonsense!\"\n\n\"It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from\nyou than all the wine as ever was swallowed.\" Then she did kiss him,\n\"as though she meant it;\" and when she returned with him to Bungay\nthe next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do\nher duty by him as his wife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCV.\n\nTHE LONGESTAFFE MARRIAGES.\n\n\nIn another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was a\nlady whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's\nfriends had done for Ruby. Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the early\ndays of August was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage\nwith Mr. George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, a\nday which in Suffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined\nenergies of the houses of Caversham and Toodlam were being devoted\nto that happy event. Poor Georgey's position was in every respect\nwretched, but its misery was infinitely increased by the triumph\nof those hymeneals. It was but the other day that she had looked\ndown from a very great height on her elder sister, and had utterly\ndespised the squire of Toodlam. And at that time, still so recent,\nthis contempt from her had been accepted as being almost reasonable.\nSophia had hardly ventured to rebel against it, and Mr. Whitstable\nhimself had been always afraid to encounter the shafts of irony with\nwhich his fashionable future sister-in-law attacked him. But all that\nwas now changed. Sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant,\nand George Whitstable, petted in the house with those sweetmeats\nwhich are always showered on embryo bridegrooms, absolutely gave\nhimself airs. At this time Mr. Longestaffe was never at home. Having\nassured himself that there was no longer any danger of the Brehgert\nalliance he had remained in London, thinking his presence to be\nnecessary for the winding up of Melmotte's affairs, and leaving\npoor Lady Pomona to bear her daughter's ill-humour. The family at\nCaversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and was enlivened\nby daily visits from Toodlam. It will be owned that in this state of\nthings there was very little consolation for Georgiana.\n\nIt was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her sister,--to\nthe point of absolutely refusing to act as bridesmaid. The reader may\nremember that there had been a watch and chain, and that two of the\nladies of the family had expressed an opinion that these trinkets\nshould be returned to Mr. Brehgert who had bestowed them. But\nGeorgiana had not sent them back when a week had elapsed since the\nreceipt of Mr. Brehgert's last letter. The matter had perhaps escaped\nLady Pomona's memory, but Sophia was happily alive to the honour\nof her family. \"Georgey,\" she said one morning in their mother's\npresence, \"don't you think Mr. Brehgert's watch ought to go back to\nhim without any more delay?\"\n\n\"What have you got to do with anybody's watch? The watch wasn't given\nto you.\"\n\n\"I think it ought to go back. When papa finds that it has been kept\nI'm sure he'll be very angry.\"\n\n\"It's no business of yours whether he's angry or not.\"\n\n\"If it isn't sent George will tell Dolly. You know what would happen\nthen.\"\n\nThis was unbearable! That George Whitstable should interfere in her\naffairs,--that he should talk about her watch and chain. \"I never\nwill speak to George Whitstable again the longest day that ever I\nlive,\" she said, getting up from her chair.\n\n\"My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that,\" exclaimed the\nunhappy mother.\n\n\"I do say it. What has George Whitstable to do with me? A miserably\nstupid fellow! Because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over\nthe whole family.\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back,\" said\nSophia.\n\n\"Certainly he ought,\" said Lady Pomona. \"Georgiana, it must be sent\nback. It really must,--or I shall tell your papa.\"\n\nSubsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and chain\nto her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them,\nand explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa\nas soon as he should have returned to Caversham. Lady Pomona was now\nempowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to the\nhands of the odious George Whitstable, who about this time made a\njourney to London in reference to certain garments which he required.\nBut Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with\nher sister. She would not be bridesmaid. She would never speak to\nGeorge Whitstable. And she would shut herself up on the day of the\nmarriage.\n\nShe did think herself to be very hardly used. What was there left in\nthe world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? And\nwhat did her father and mother expect would become of her? Marriage\nhad ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition of\nthings to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure\nthe idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting\ntill some fitting suitor might find her out. She had struggled and\nstruggled,--struggling still in vain,--till every effort of her mind,\nevery thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that\nas she grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more\nintense. The swimmer when first he finds himself in the water,\nconscious of his skill and confident in his strength, can make his\nway through the water with the full command of all his powers. But\nwhen he begins to feel that the shore is receding from him, that his\nstrength is going, that the footing for which he pants is still\nfar beneath his feet,--that there is peril where before he had\ncontemplated no danger,--then he begins to beat the water with\nstrokes rapid but impotent, and to waste in anxious gaspings the\nbreath on which his very life must depend. So it was with poor\nGeorgey Longestaffe. Something must be done at once, or it would be\nof no avail. Twelve years had been passed by her since first she\nplunged into the stream,--the twelve years of her youth,--and she was\nas far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if she believed her eyes.\nShe too must strike out with rapid efforts, unless, indeed, she would\nabandon herself and let the waters close over her head. But immersed\nas she was here at Caversham, how could she strike at all? Even now\nthe waters were closing upon her. The sound of them was in her ears.\nThe ripple of the wave was already round her lips; robbing her of\nbreath. Ah!--might not there be some last great convulsive effort\nwhich might dash her on shore, even if it were upon a rock!\n\nThat ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same\nas drowning she never for a moment doubted. It had never occurred\nto her to consider with equanimity the prospect of living as an old\nmaid. It was beyond the scope of her mind to contemplate the chances\nof a life in which marriage might be well if it came, but in which\nunmarried tranquillity might also be well should that be her lot. Nor\ncould she understand that others should contemplate it for her. No\ndoubt the battle had been carried on for many years so much under the\nauspices of her father and mother as to justify her in thinking that\ntheir theory of life was the same as her own. Lady Pomona had been\nvery open in her teaching, and Mr. Longestaffe had always given a\nsilent adherence to the idea that the house in London was to be\nkept open in order that husbands might be caught. And now when they\ndeserted her in her real difficulty,--when they first told her\nto live at Caversham all the summer, and then sent her up to the\nMelmottes, and after that forbade her marriage with Mr. Brehgert,--it\nseemed to her that they were unnatural parents who gave her a stone\nwhen she wanted bread, a serpent when she asked for a fish. She had\nno friend left. There was no one living who seemed to care whether\nshe had a husband or not. She took to walking in solitude about the\npark, and thought of many things with a grim earnestness which had\nnot hitherto belonged to her character.\n\n\"Mamma,\" she said one morning when all the care of the household\nwas being devoted to the future comforts,--chiefly in regard to\nlinen,--of Mrs. George Whitstable, \"I wonder whether papa has any\nintention at all about me.\"\n\n\"In what sort of way, my dear?\"\n\n\"In any way. Does he mean me to live here for ever and ever?\"\n\n\"I don't think he intends to have a house in town again.\"\n\n\"And what am I to do?\"\n\n\"I suppose we shall stay here at Caversham.\"\n\n\"And I'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent,--only that the\nnun does it by her own consent and I don't! Mamma, I won't stand it.\nI won't indeed.\"\n\n\"I think, my dear, that that is nonsense. You see company here, just\nas other people do in the country;--and as for not standing it, I\ndon't know what you mean. As long as you are one of your papa's\nfamily of course you must live where he lives.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!--It is horrible--horrible!\nAs if you didn't know! As if you couldn't understand! Sometimes I\nalmost doubt whether papa does know, and then I think that if he did\nhe would not be so cruel. But you understand it all as well as I do\nmyself. What is to become of me? Is it not enough to drive me mad\nto be going about here by myself, without any prospect of anything?\nShould you have liked at my age to have felt that you had no chance\nof having a house of your own to live in? Why didn't you, among you,\nlet me marry Mr. Brehgert?\" As she said this she was almost eloquent\nwith passion.\n\n\"You know, my dear,\" said Lady Pomona, \"that your papa wouldn't hear\nof it.\"\n\n\"I know that if you would have helped me I would have done it in\nspite of papa. What right has he to domineer over me in that way? Why\nshouldn't I have married the man if I chose? I am old enough to know\nsurely. You talk now of shutting up girls in convents as being a\nthing quite impossible. This is much worse. Papa won't do anything to\nhelp me. Why shouldn't he let me do something for myself?\"\n\n\"You can't regret Mr. Brehgert!\"\n\n\"Why can't I regret him? I do regret him. I'd have him to-morrow if\nhe came. Bad as it might be, it couldn't be so bad as Caversham.\"\n\n\"You couldn't have loved him, Georgiana.\"\n\n\"Loved him! Who thinks about love nowadays? I don't know any one who\nloves any one else. You won't tell me that Sophy is going to marry\nthat idiot because she loves him! Did Julia Triplex love that man\nwith the large fortune? When you wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte\nyou never thought of his loving her. I had got the better of all that\nkind of thing before I was twenty.\"\n\n\"I think a young woman should love her husband.\"\n\n\"It makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way. It does\nindeed. When one has been going on for a dozen years trying to do\nsomething,--and I have never had any secrets from you,--then that you\nshould turn round upon me and talk about love! Mamma, if you would\nhelp me I think I could still manage with Mr. Brehgert.\" Lady Pomona\nshuddered. \"You have not got to marry him.\"\n\n\"It is too horrid.\"\n\n\"Who would have to put up with it? Not you, or papa, or Dolly. I\nshould have a house of my own at least, and I should know what I had\nto expect for the rest of my life. If I stay here I shall go mad,--or\ndie.\"\n\n\"It is impossible.\"\n\n\"If you will stand to me, mamma, I am sure it may be done. I would\nwrite to him, and say that you would see him.\"\n\n\"Georgiana, I will never see him.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"He is a Jew!\"\n\n\"What abominable prejudice;--what wicked prejudice! As if you didn't\nknow that all that is changed now! What possible difference can it\nmake about a man's religion? Of course I know that he is vulgar, and\nold, and has a lot of children. But if I can put up with that, I\ndon't think that you and papa have a right to interfere. As to his\nreligion it cannot signify.\"\n\n\"Georgiana, you make me very unhappy. I am wretched to see you so\ndiscontented. If I could do anything for you, I would. But I will not\nmeddle about Mr. Brehgert. I shouldn't dare to do so. I don't think\nyou know how angry your papa can be.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me. What can he\ndo? I don't suppose he'll beat me. And I'd rather he would than shut\nme up here. As for you, mamma, I don't think you care for me a bit.\nBecause Sophy is going to be married to that oaf, you are become so\nproud of her that you haven't half a thought for anybody else.\"\n\n\"That's very unjust, Georgiana.\"\n\n\"I know what's unjust,--and I know who's ill-treated. I tell you\nfairly, mamma, that I shall write to Mr. Brehgert and tell him that\nI am quite ready to marry him. I don't know why he should be afraid\nof papa. I don't mean to be afraid of him any more, and you may tell\nhim just what I say.\"\n\nAll this made Lady Pomona very miserable. She did not communicate her\ndaughter's threat to Mr. Longestaffe, but she did discuss it with\nSophia. Sophia was of opinion that Georgiana did not mean it, and\ngave two or three reasons for thinking so. In the first place had she\nintended it she would have written her letter without saying a word\nabout it to Lady Pomona. And she certainly would not have declared\nher purpose of writing such letter after Lady Pomona had refused her\nassistance. And moreover,--Lady Pomona had received no former hint of\nthe information which was now conveyed to her,--Georgiana was in the\nhabit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in\nthe park.\n\n\"Mr. Batherbolt!\" exclaimed Lady Pomona.\n\n\"She is walking with Mr. Batherbolt almost every day.\"\n\n\"But he is so very strict.\"\n\n\"It is true, mamma.\"\n\n\"And he's five years younger than she! And he's got nothing but his\ncuracy! And he's a celibate! I heard the bishop laughing at him\nbecause he called himself a celibate.\"\n\n\"It doesn't signify, mamma. I know she is with him constantly. Wilson\nhas seen them,--and I know it. Perhaps papa could get him a living.\nDolly has a living of his own that came to him with his property.\"\n\n\"Dolly would be sure to sell the presentation,\" said Lady Pomona.\n\n\"Perhaps the bishop would do something,\" said the anxious sister,\n\"when he found that the man wasn't a celibate. Anything, mamma, would\nbe better than the Jew.\" To this latter proposition Lady Pomona\ngave a cordial assent. \"Of course it is a come-down to marry a\ncurate,--but a clergyman is always considered to be decent.\"\n\nThe preparations for the Whitstable marriage went on without any\napparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between Mr.\nBatherbolt and Georgiana. There was no room to apprehend anything\nwrong on that side. Mr. Batherbolt was so excellent a young man,\nand so exclusively given to religion, that, even should Sophy's\nsuspicion be correct, he might be trusted to walk about the park with\nGeorgiana. Should he at any time come forward and ask to be allowed\nto make the lady his wife, there would be no disgrace in the matter.\nHe was a clergyman and a gentleman,--and the poverty would be\nGeorgiana's own affair.\n\nMr. Longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest\ndaughter's marriage, and with him came Dolly. Great trouble had been\ntaken to teach him that duty absolutely required his presence at his\nsister's marriage, and he had at last consented to be there. It is\nnot generally considered a hardship by a young man that he should\nhave to go into a good partridge country on the 1st of September, and\nDolly was an acknowledged sportsman. Nevertheless, he considered that\nhe had made a great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by\nLady Pomona as though he were a bright example to other sons. He\nfound the house not in a very comfortable position, for Georgiana\nstill persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak\nto Mr. Whitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at\nCaversham, gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money\naffairs had been comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to\nsquabble with his father. It was a great thing that one of the girls\nshould be married, and Dolly had brought down an enormous china dog,\nabout five feet high, as a wedding present, which added materially\nto the happiness of the meeting. Lady Pomona had determined that she\nwould tell her husband of those walks in the park, and of other signs\nof growing intimacy which had reached her ears;--but this she would\npostpone until after the Whitstable marriage.\n\nBut at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage, they\nwere all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away with Mr.\nBatherbolt. She had been up before six. He had met her at the park\ngate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at Stowmarket.\nThen it appeared, too, that by degrees various articles of her\nproperty had been conveyed to Mr. Batherbolt's lodgings in the\nadjacent village, so that Lady Pomona's fear that Georgiana would not\nhave a thing to wear, was needless. When the fact was first known\nit was almost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the\nWhitstable marriage must be postponed. But Sophia had a word to say\nto her mother on that head, and she said it. The marriage was not\npostponed. At first Dolly talked of going after his younger sister,\nand the father did dispatch various telegrams. But the fugitives\ncould not be brought back, and with some little delay,--which made\nthe marriage perhaps uncanonical but not illegal,--Mr. George\nWhitstable was made a happy man.\n\nIt need only be added that in about a month's time Georgiana returned\nto Caversham as Mrs. Batherbolt, and that she resided there with her\nhusband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. At the end\nof that time they removed to a small living, for the purchase of\nwhich Mr. Longestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCVI.\n\nWHERE \"THE WILD ASSES QUENCH THEIR THIRST.\"\n\n\nWe must now go back a little in our story,--about three weeks,--in\norder that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at the\nBeargarden. That establishment had received a terrible blow in the\ndefection of Herr Vossner. It was not only that he had robbed the\nclub, and robbed every member of the club who had ventured to have\npersonal dealings with him. Although a bad feeling in regard to\nhim was no doubt engendered in the minds of those who had suffered\ndeeply, it was not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom\nover the club. The sorrow was in this,--that with Herr Vossner all\ntheir comforts had gone. Of course Herr Vossner had been a thief.\nThat no doubt had been known to them from the beginning. A man does\nnot consent to be called out of bed at all hours in the morning to\narrange the gambling accounts of young gentlemen without being a\nthief. No one concerned with Herr Vossner had supposed him to be an\nhonest man. But then as a thief he had been so comfortable that his\nabsence was regretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love even\nby those who had suffered most severely from his rapacity. Dolly\nLongestaffe had been robbed more outrageously than any other member\nof the club, and yet Dolly Longestaffe had said since the departure\nof the purveyor that London was not worth living in now that Herr\nVossner was gone. In a week the Beargarden collapsed,--as Germany\nwould collapse for a period if Herr Vossner's great compatriot were\nsuddenly to remove himself from the scene; but as Germany would\nstrive to live even without Bismarck, so did the club make its new\nefforts. But here the parallel must cease. Germany no doubt would\nat last succeed, but the Beargarden had received a blow from which\nit seemed that there was no recovery. At first it was proposed that\nthree men should be appointed as trustees,--trustees for paying\nVossner's debts, trustees for borrowing more money, trustees for the\nsatisfaction of the landlord who was beginning to be anxious as to\nhis future rent. At a certain very triumphant general meeting of\nthe club it was determined that such a plan should be arranged, and\nthe members assembled were unanimous. It was at first thought that\nthere might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship. The club was\nso popular and the authority conveyed by the position would be so\ngreat, that A, B, and C might feel aggrieved at seeing so much power\nconferred on D, E, and F. When at the meeting above mentioned one or\ntwo names were suggested, the final choice was postponed, as a matter\nof detail to be arranged privately, rather from this consideration\nthan with any idea that there might be a difficulty in finding\nadequate persons. But even the leading members of the Beargarden\nhesitated when the proposition was submitted to them with all its\nhonours and all its responsibilities. Lord Nidderdale declared from\nthe beginning that he would have nothing to do with it,--pleading his\npoverty openly. Beauchamp Beauclerk was of opinion that he himself\ndid not frequent the club often enough. Mr. Lupton professed his\ninability as a man of business. Lord Grasslough pleaded his father.\nThe club from the first had been sure of Dolly Longestaffe's\nservices;--for were not Dolly's pecuniary affairs now in process of\nsatisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all men that his\ncourage never failed him in regard to money? But even he declined.\n\"I have spoken to Squercum,\" he said to the Committee, \"and Squercum\nwon't hear of it. Squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the\nclub very shaky.\" When one of the Committee made a remark as to\nMr. Squercum which was not complimentary,--insinuated indeed that\nSquercum without injustice might be consigned to the infernal\ndeities,--Dolly took the matter up warmly. \"That's all very well for\nyou, Grasslough; but if you knew the comfort of having a fellow who\ncould keep you straight without preaching sermons at you you wouldn't\ndespise Squercum. I've tried to go alone and I find that does not\nanswer. Squercum's my coach, and I mean to stick pretty close to\nhim.\" Then it came to pass that the triumphant project as to the\ntrustees fell to the ground, although Squercum himself advised\nthat the difficulty might be lessened if three gentlemen could be\nselected who lived well before the world and yet had nothing to lose.\nWhereupon Dolly suggested Miles Grendall. But the Committee shook its\nheads, not thinking it possible that the club could be re-established\non a basis of three Miles Grendalls.\n\nThen dreadful rumours were heard. The Beargarden must surely be\nabandoned. \"It is such a pity,\" said Nidderdale, \"because there never\nhas been anything like it.\"\n\n\"Smoke all over the house!\" said Dolly.\n\n\"No horrid nonsense about closing,\" said Grasslough, \"and no infernal\nold fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing.\"\n\n\"Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That's\nwhat I liked,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"It's an old story,\" said Mr. Lupton, \"that if you put a man into\nParadise he'll make it too hot to hold him. That's what you've done\nhere.\"\n\n\"What we ought to do,\" said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of his\nown good fortune in regard to Squercum, \"is to get some fellow like\nVossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his\nregular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really think\nthat might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt.\" But Mr.\nLupton was of opinion that the new Vossner might perhaps not know,\nwhen thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity.\n\nOne day, before the Whitstable marriage, when it was understood that\nthe club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless some\nnew heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation,\nNidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the hall and\nthe steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner,\nwhen Sir Felix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a\ncreeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. He had nearly\nrecovered from his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court\nplaster on his upper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak\nas though he had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had\nheard little or nothing of what had been done at the Beargarden since\nVossner's defection. It was now a month since he had been seen at\nthe club. His thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine\ndays, but latterly his existence had been almost forgotten. Now, with\ndifficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so\ncompletely had he been cowed by the latter circumstances of his life;\nbut he had determined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to\nhis old associates as though no evil thing had befallen him. He had\nstill money enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber\nof whist. If fortune should go against him he might glide into I. O.\nU.'s;--as others had done before, so much to his cost. \"By George,\nhere's Carbury!\" said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his\nback, and walked up-stairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to\nhave their hands shaken by the stranger.\n\n\"Thought you were out of town,\" said Nidderdale. \"Haven't seen you\nfor the last ever so long.\"\n\n\"I have been out of town,\" said Felix,--lying; \"down in Suffolk. But\nI'm back now. How are things going on here?\"\n\n\"They're not going at all;--they're gone,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Everything is smashed,\" said Nidderdale. \"We shall all have to pay,\nI don't know how much.\"\n\n\"Wasn't Vossner ever caught?\" asked the baronet.\n\n\"Caught!\" ejaculated Dolly. \"No;--but he has caught us. I don't know\nthat there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We close\naltogether next Monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for.\nFlatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale.\nIndeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece.\nHe's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the\ncellar.\"\n\n\"That don't matter,\" said Nidderdale, \"as Vossner took care that\nthere shouldn't be any wine.\"\n\n\"He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we\nhave as a favour.\"\n\n\"I suppose one can get a dinner here?\"\n\n\"Yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Isn't there any playing?\" asked Felix with dismay.\n\n\"I haven't seen a card this fortnight,\" said Dolly. \"There hasn't\nbeen anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been\nthe affair of Melmotte, you know;--though, I suppose, you do know all\nabout that.\"\n\n\"Of course I know he poisoned himself.\"\n\n\"Of course that had effect,\" said Dolly, continuing his history.\n\"Though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow like\nthat takes poison, I can't understand. Last year the only day I\nmanaged to get down in February, the hounds didn't come because some\nold cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I call\nthat rot.\"\n\n\"Melmotte's death was rather awful,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. And now they say\nthe girl is going to be married to Fisker. I don't know how you and\nNidderdale like that. I never went in for her myself. Squercum never\nseemed to see it.\"\n\n\"Poor dear!\" said Nidderdale. \"She's welcome for me, and I dare say\nshe couldn't do better with herself. I was very fond of her;--I'll be\nshot if I wasn't.\"\n\n\"And Carbury too, I suppose,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"No; I wasn't. If I'd really been fond of her I suppose it would have\ncome off. I should have had her safe enough to America, if I'd cared\nabout it.\" This was Sir Felix's view of the matter.\n\n\"Come into the smoking-room, Dolly,\" said Nidderdale. \"I can stand\nmost things, and I try to stand everything; but, by George, that\nfellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him. You and I are bad\nenough,--but I don't think we're so heartless as Carbury.\"\n\n\"I don't think I'm heartless at all,\" said Dolly. \"I'm good-natured\nto everybody that is good-natured to me,--and to a great many people\nwho ain't. I'm going all the way down to Caversham next week to see\nmy sister married, though I hate the place and hate marriages, and\nif I was to be hung for it I couldn't say a word to the fellow who\nis going to be my brother-in-law. But I do agree about Carbury. It's\nvery hard to be good-natured to him.\"\n\nBut, in the teeth of these adverse opinions Sir Felix managed to get\nhis dinner-table close to theirs and to tell them at dinner something\nof his future prospects. He was going to travel and see the world. He\nhad, according to his own account, completely run through London life\nand found that it was all barren.\n\n   \"In life I've rung all changes through,\n       Run every pleasure down,\n     'Midst each excess of folly too,\n       And lived with half the town.\"\n\nSir Felix did not exactly quote the old song, probably having never\nheard the words. But that was the burden of his present story. It was\nhis determination to seek new scenes, and in search of them to travel\nover the greater part of the known world.\n\n\"How jolly for you!\" said Dolly.\n\n\"It will be a change, you know.\"\n\n\"No end of a change. Is any one going with you?\"\n\n\"Well;--yes. I've got a travelling companion;--a very pleasant\nfellow, who knows a lot, and will be able to coach me up in things.\nThere's a deal to be learned by going abroad, you know.\"\n\n\"A sort of a tutor,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"A parson, I suppose,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Well;--he is a clergyman. Who told you?\"\n\n\"It's only my inventive genius. Well;--yes; I should say that would\nbe nice,--travelling about Europe with a clergyman. I shouldn't get\nenough advantage out of it to make it pay, but I fancy it will just\nsuit you.\"\n\n\"It's an expensive sort of thing;--isn't it?\" asked Nidderdale.\n\n\"Well;--it does cost something. But I've got so sick of this kind of\nlife;--and then that railway Board coming to an end, and the club\nsmashing up, and--\"\n\n\"Marie Melmotte marrying Fisker,\" suggested Dolly.\n\n\"That too, if you will. But I want a change, and a change I mean to\nhave. I've seen this side of things, and now I'll have a look at the\nother.\"\n\n\"Didn't you have a row in the street with some one the other day?\"\nThis question was asked very abruptly by Lord Grasslough, who, though\nhe was sitting near them, had not yet joined in the conversation, and\nwho had not before addressed a word to Sir Felix. \"We heard something\nabout it, but we never got the right story.\" Nidderdale glanced\nacross the table at Dolly, and Dolly whistled. Grasslough looked at\nthe man he addressed as one does look when one expects an answer. Mr.\nLupton, with whom Grasslough was dining, also sat expectant. Dolly\nand Nidderdale were both silent.\n\nIt was the fear of this that had kept Sir Felix away from the club.\nGrasslough, as he had told himself, was just the fellow to ask such\na question,--ill-natured, insolent, and obtrusive. But the question\ndemanded an answer of some kind. \"Yes,\" said he; \"a fellow attacked\nme in the street, coming behind me when I had a girl with me. He\ndidn't get much the best of it though.\"\n\n\"Oh;--didn't he?\" said Grasslough. \"I think, upon the whole, you\nknow, you're right about going abroad.\"\n\n\"What business is it of yours?\" asked the baronet.\n\n\"Well;--as the club is being broken up, I don't know that it is very\nmuch the business of any of us.\"\n\n\"I was speaking to my friends, Lord Nidderdale and Mr. Longestaffe,\nand not to you.\"\n\n\"I quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction,\" said Lord\nGrasslough, \"and am sorry for Lord Nidderdale and Mr. Longestaffe.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" said Sir Felix, rising from his chair.\nHis present opponent was not horrible to him as had been John Crumb,\nas men in clubs do not now often knock each others' heads or draw\nswords one upon another.\n\n\"Don't let's have a quarrel here,\" said Mr. Lupton. \"I shall leave\nthe room if you do.\"\n\n\"If we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness,\" said\nNidderdale.\n\n\"Of course, if there is to be a fight, I'm good to go out with\nanybody,\" said Dolly. \"When there's any beastly thing to be done,\nI've always got to do it. But don't you think that kind of thing is\na little slow?\"\n\n\"Who began it?\" said Sir Felix, sitting down again. Whereupon Lord\nGrasslough, who had finished his dinner, walked out of the room.\n\"That fellow is always wanting to quarrel.\"\n\n\"There's one comfort, you know,\" said Dolly. \"It wants two men to\nmake a quarrel.\"\n\n\"Yes; it does,\" said Sir Felix, taking this as a friendly\nobservation; \"and I'm not going to be fool enough to be one of them.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I meant it fast enough,\" said Grasslough afterwards up\nin the card-room. The other men who had been together had quickly\nfollowed him, leaving Sir Felix alone, and they had collected\nthemselves there not with the hope of play, but thinking that they\nwould be less interrupted than in the smoking-room. \"I don't suppose\nwe shall ever any of us be here again, and as he did come in I\nthought I would tell him my mind.\"\n\n\"What's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?\" said Dolly. \"Of\ncourse he's a bad fellow. Most fellows are bad fellows in one way or\nanother.\"\n\n\"But he's bad all round,\" said the bitter enemy.\n\n\"And so this is to be the end of the Beargarden,\" said Lord\nNidderdale with a peculiar melancholy. \"Dear old place! I always felt\nit was too good to last. I fancy it doesn't do to make things too\neasy;--one has to pay so uncommon dear for them! And then, you know,\nwhen you've got things easy, then they get rowdy;--and, by George,\nbefore you know where you are, you find yourself among a lot of\nblackguards. If one wants to keep one's self straight, one has to\nwork hard at it, one way or the other. I suppose it all comes from\nthe fall of Adam.\"\n\n\"If Solomon, Solon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were rolled into\none, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom,\" said Mr. Lupton.\n\n\"Live and learn,\" continued the young lord. \"I don't think anybody\nhas liked the Beargarden so much as I have, but I shall never try\nthis kind of thing again. I shall begin reading blue books to-morrow,\nand shall dine at the Carlton. Next session I shan't miss a day in\nthe House, and I'll bet anybody a fiver that I make a speech before\nEaster. I shall take to claret at 20_s._ a dozen, and shall go about\nLondon on the top of an omnibus.\"\n\n\"How about getting married?\" asked Dolly.\n\n\"Oh;--that must be as it comes. That's the governor's affair. None of\nyou fellows will believe me, but, upon my word, I liked that girl;\nand I'd 've stuck to her at last,--only that there are some things a\nfellow can't do. He was such a thundering scoundrel!\"\n\nAfter a while Sir Felix followed them up-stairs, and entered the room\nas though nothing unpleasant had happened below. \"We can make up a\nrubber;--can't we?\" said he.\n\n\"I should say not,\" said Nidderdale.\n\n\"I shall not play,\" said Mr. Lupton.\n\n\"There isn't a pack of cards in the house,\" said Dolly. Lord\nGrasslough didn't condescend to say a word. Sir Felix sat down with\nhis cigar in his mouth, and the others continued to smoke in silence.\n\n\"I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall,\" asked Sir Felix. But no\none made any answer, and they smoked on in silence. \"He hasn't paid\nme a shilling yet of the money he owes me.\" Still there was not a\nword. \"And I don't suppose he ever will.\" There was another pause.\n\"He is the biggest scoundrel I ever met,\" said Sir Felix.\n\n\"I know one as big,\" said Lord Grasslough,--\"or, at any rate, as\nlittle.\"\n\nThere was another pause of a minute, and then Sir Felix left the room\nmuttering something as to the stupidity of having no cards;--and\nso brought to an end his connection with his associates of the\nBeargarden. From that time forth he was never more seen by them,--or,\nif seen, was never known.\n\nThe other men remained there till well on into the night, although\nthere was not the excitement of any special amusement to attract\nthem. It was felt by them all that this was the end of the\nBeargarden, and, with a melancholy seriousness befitting the\noccasion, they whispered sad things in low voices, consoling\nthemselves simply with tobacco. \"I never felt so much like crying in\nmy life,\" said Dolly, as he asked for a glass of brandy-and-water at\nabout midnight. \"Good-night, old fellows; good-bye. I'm going down to\nCaversham, and I shouldn't wonder if I didn't drown myself.\"\n\nHow Mr. Flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture, and\nthreatened everybody, and at last singled out poor Dolly Longestaffe\nas his special victim; and how Dolly Longestaffe, by the aid of\nMr. Squercum, utterly confounded Mr. Flatfleece, and brought that\ningenious but unfortunate man, with his wife and small family, to\nabsolute ruin, the reader will hardly expect to have told to him in\ndetail in this chronicle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCVII.\n\nMRS. HURTLE'S FATE.\n\n\nMrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin and\nJohn Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to\nBungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any\nlove for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to\nwitness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness\ntowards Paul Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, but\nshe could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which\nhe was living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She\nhad consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to\nher,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken\nher place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all\nher very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met,\nshe never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return\nto her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat\nstupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the\nrough tempests of her past days. Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was less\nintellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she was\nquite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable\nof two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the\nUnited States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost\nloved John Crumb. How different would her life have been could she\nhave met a man who would have been as true to her as John Crumb was\nto his Ruby!\n\nShe loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself\nfor loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to\nseize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples\nand prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of\napprehension and readiness of action! But yet she loved him for his\nvery faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his\nEnglish manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land.\nThe man had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and\nhad broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything\nblank before her by his treachery! But then she also had not been\nquite true with him. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had\nhe. They had played a game against each other; and he, with all the\ninferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he\nwas a man. She had much time for thinking, and she thought much about\nthese things. He could change his love as often as he pleased, and be\nas good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his\ndefection. He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek\nhis honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of\nwhich she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourning\nwould not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin's\nsolitary lodgings at Islington.\n\n\"So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now?\" asked Mrs. Pipkin a\nday or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr. Fisker\nhad called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin so\nmuch. \"To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague.\" Mrs.\nPipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she\nmight be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it\nmight be well to praise an American at the expense of an Englishman.\n\n\"There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin.\"\n\n\"And that's true, too, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"Mr. Montague is a gentleman.\"\n\n\"I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Fisker is--an American citizen.\" Mrs. Hurtle when she said\nthis was very far gone in tenderness.\n\n\"Indeed now!\" said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understand\nthe meaning of her friend's last remark.\n\n\"Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had\nnot heard before, and has offered to take me back with him.\" Mrs.\nPipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes. \"I must go some day, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"I suppose you must. I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always.\nI wish I could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been.\nThere hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most\nladylike,--most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though\nyou had the bank in your pocket.\" All this the poor woman said, moved\nby her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.\n\n\"Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. But I hear\nthat he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as\nwell join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer\ncompany just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first\nof September.\" As this was said about the middle of August there\nwas still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin. A fortnight\ngained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England on\nbusiness, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly\nbe further delay. Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication to\nMrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her\nhand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle had\ndesired to say. \"By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to\ncall to-morrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes.\" She had\nfeared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be\na little scene at the door when the gentleman came.\n\n\"Mr. Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle,--of course. I'll see to\nit myself.\" Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had\nmade a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr. Montague, if,\nafter all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.\n\nOn the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with almost more\nthan her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual\ncare, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk,\nnursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as\nthough she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write\na word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course\nshe was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself\nabsolute quiescence.\n\nShe almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him.\nShe had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had\nseen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity\nhad been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She\nhad no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she\nat this moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she\nwas about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not\nknow that she had anything else to say. Then came the knock at the\ndoor. Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort\nto be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door\nwas opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself.\nMrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to\nher lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause\na moment to listen at the keyhole. \"I thought you would come and see\nme once again before I went,\" said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from her\nsofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. \"Sit there opposite, so\nthat we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Of course I came when you left word for me to do so.\"\n\n\"I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own.\"\n\n\"I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know\nthat.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel\nas to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she\nforgiven your sins?\"\n\n\"We are friends,--if you mean that.\"\n\n\"Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell\nher that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was.\nShe was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you.\nPerhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I was\nsufficient to serve the turn.\"\n\n\"Did you say a good word for me?\"\n\n\"Well; no;\" replied Mrs. Hurtle. \"I will not boast that I did. I do\nnot want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good\nof you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite as\nserviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour\nwithout ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behaved\nto me. I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had\nthrown me to the winds.\"\n\n\"It was not so, my friend.\"\n\n\"What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you\nknow! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies.\nI could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing\ninterview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your\nlove for me by English propriety even before you had seen her\nbeautiful eyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all my\ndisgrace,--anxious as I was to be of service. Besides, as I put it,\nshe was sure to be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly\nyou had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been\nto you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!\"\n\n\"Winifrid, that is untrue.\"\n\n\"That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr. Roger\nCarbury, who I own is poison to me--\"\n\n\"You do not know him.\"\n\n\"Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir. I say that\nhe is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with\nthe flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our\nhaving lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact\nthat we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had\nbecome the one stumbling block on your path to happiness.\"\n\n\"He never said a word to her of our being there.\"\n\n\"Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only\nmeans of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and\nhow heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return of\nfriendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder\nthan Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands.\nPerhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been\narranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me.\"\n\n\"You do not believe that.\"\n\n\"You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct\nhad been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve some\nthanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her that\nyour conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. I\nconfessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a\nwoman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed\nto avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate\nand hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on\nyour behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot\nwheels. And now you have not a word of thanks to give me!\"\n\n\"Every word you say is a dagger.\"\n\n\"You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as I\nmake. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed\nbones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you\nI have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into\nyour heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny,\nspiritless English girl?\" All this time she was still seated, looking\nat him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow.\n\"But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not\nbecause they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that\ncomfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for a\nmoment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking\nthat you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and then\nwill you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round her\nwaist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of\nmy words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prick\nwill last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happiness\nand joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only on\nretrospects?\"\n\n\"I wish I could say a word to comfort you.\"\n\n\"You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that\nyou have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfort\nagain. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you all\nthat I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify\nyour treatment of me. He is not dead.\"\n\n\"You mean Mr. Hurtle.\"\n\n\"Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce which\nwas declared between us was no divorce. Mr. Fisker came here to me\nwith tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I\nknow that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to\nSan Francisco.\"\n\n\"I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see\nwhy we should not suit each other.\"\n\n\"They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte.\"\n\n\"Why should I object to that? I shall not be jealous of Mr. Fisker's\nattentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one to\nwhom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I\nmay have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of\nsome friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I\nhave travelled half across the ocean with them.\"\n\n\"I hope they will be kind to you,\" said Paul.\n\n\"No;--but I will be kind to them. I have conquered others by being\nkind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer\nyou, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to\nthat poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I\nused to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things\nthat should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should\nsmell of lavender instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair,\nfeminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw,\nwho would die rather than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul,\nand I said that my dreams should come true. I ought to have known\nthat it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all the\ntruth. I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me.\nWell;--I suppose you had better say good-bye to me. What is the good\nof putting it off?\" Then she rose from her chair and stood before him\nwith her arms hanging listlessly by her side.\n\n\"God bless you, Winifrid!\" he said, putting out his hand to her.\n\n\"But he won't. Why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they\nwho do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil\ncursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself\nnow not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I\nshould care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least\nnothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look\nhere;--will you have this back?\" As she asked this she took from out\nher bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given\nher in New York, and held it towards him.\n\n\"If you wish it I will,--of course,\" he said.\n\n\"I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing\non earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another\nman,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I live\nit shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect for\nthe proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture\nof the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman.\nHaving once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself\nbecause you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love\nyou,--oh, with my very heart of hearts.\" So speaking she threw\nherself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. \"For one\nmoment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here.\nOh, Paul, my love;--my love!\"\n\nAll this to him was simply agony,--though as she had truly said it\nwas an agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of her\nlove,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be so\ntold while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for\nanother woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. He\ndid not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought\nmight be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of\nmoderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood\nwith his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses;\nbut he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how\nchill they were. \"There,\" she said, smiling through her bitter\ntears,--\"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall\never be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last\nmeeting, you must forgive me.\"\n\n\"No;--but you cut me to the heart.\"\n\n\"That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools\nof themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment.\nYours will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the\nfirst of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr.\nFisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is\nconvenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me\nagain. Indeed it will be better that you should not. Good-bye.\"\n\nHe took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while\nshe smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pull\nher towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsed\nhim, still smiling the while. \"No, sir; no; not again; never again,\nnever,--never,--never again.\" By that time she had recovered her hand\nand stood apart from him. \"Good-bye, Paul;--and now go.\" Then he\nturned round and left the room without uttering a word.\n\nShe stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step\ndown the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Then\nhiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain\nshe watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned the\ncorner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment\nwith her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone\nupon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that she\nhad loved him with all her heart.\n\n\n[Illlustration: Mrs. Hurtle at the window.]\n\n\nBut that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her and was more\ngracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but still\ncurious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle\nseemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to\nspeak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, she\nsaid, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each of\nthem preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part.\nOn that evening Mrs. Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant,\nhaving the children up into her room, and giving them jam and\nbread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed\nto take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and her\nfamily. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon\nMrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr. Fisker came\nand took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left,--a\ndesolate but grateful woman.\n\n\"They do tell bad things about them Americans,\" she said to a friend\nin the street, \"and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I only\nwish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost.\nShe had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating\npudding just as if they was her own.\"\n\nI think Mrs. Pipkin was right, and that Mrs. Hurtle, with all her\nfaults, was a good-natured woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCVIII.\n\nMARIE MELMOTTE'S FATE.\n\n\nIn the meantime Marie Melmotte was living with Madame Melmotte in\ntheir lodgings up at Hampstead, and was taking quite a new look out\ninto the world. Fisker had become her devoted servant,--not with that\nold-fashioned service which meant making love, but with perhaps a\ntruer devotion to her material interests. He had ascertained on her\nbehalf that she was the undoubted owner of the money which her father\nhad made over to her on his first arrival in England,--and she also\nhad made herself mistress of that fact with equal precision. It\nwould have astonished those who had known her six months since could\nthey now have seen how excellent a woman of business she had become,\nand how capable she was of making the fullest use of Mr. Fisker's\nservices. In doing him justice it must be owned that he kept\nnothing back from her of that which he learned, probably feeling\nthat he might best achieve success in his present project by such\nhonesty,--feeling also, no doubt, the girl's own strength in\ndiscovering truth and falsehood. \"She's her father's own daughter,\"\nhe said one day to Croll in Abchurch Lane;--for Croll, though he\nhad left Melmotte's employment when he found that his name had been\nforged, had now returned to the service of the daughter in some\nundefined position, and had been engaged to go with her and Madame\nMelmotte to New York.\n\n\"Ah; yees,\" said Croll, \"but bigger. He vas passionate, and did lose\nhis 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness.\" Whereupon Croll made an\naction as though he were a frog swelling himself to the dimensions\nof an ox. \"'E bursted himself, Mr. Fisker. 'E vas a great man; but\nthe greater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'E ate so\nmuch that he became too fat to see to eat his vittels.\" It was thus\nthat Herr Croll analyzed the character of his late master. \"But\nMa'me'selle,--ah, she is different. She vill never eat too moch, but\nvill see to eat alvays.\" Thus too he analyzed the character of his\nyoung mistress.\n\nAt first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between Madame\nMelmotte and Marie. The reader will perhaps remember that they were\nin no way connected by blood. Madame Melmotte was not Marie's mother,\nnor, in the eye of the law, could Marie claim Melmotte as her father.\nShe was alone in the world, absolutely without a relation, not\nknowing even what had been her mother's name,--not even knowing what\nwas her father's true name, as in the various biographies of the\ngreat man which were, as a matter of course, published within a\nfortnight of his death, various accounts were given as to his birth,\nparentage, and early history. The general opinion seemed to be that\nhis father had been a noted coiner in New York,--an Irishman of the\nname of Melmody,--and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent\nwas argued from Melmotte's skill in forgery. But Marie, though she\nwas thus isolated, and now altogether separated from the lords and\nduchesses who a few weeks since had been interested in her career,\nwas the undoubted owner of the money,--a fact which was beyond the\ncomprehension of Madame Melmotte. She could understand,--and was\ndelighted to understand,--that a very large sum of money had been\nsaved from the wreck, and that she might therefore look forward to\nprosperous tranquillity for the rest of her life. Though she never\nacknowledged so much to herself, she soon learned to regard the\nremoval of her husband as the end of her troubles. But she could\nnot comprehend why Marie should claim all the money as her own.\nShe declared herself to be quite willing to divide the spoil,--and\nsuggested such an arrangement both to Marie and to Croll. Of Fisker\nshe was afraid, thinking that the iniquity of giving all the money\nto Marie originated with him, in order that he might obtain it\nby marrying the girl. Croll, who understood it all perfectly,\ntold her the story a dozen times,--but quite in vain. She made a\ntimid suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, and was\nonly deterred from doing so by Marie's ready assent to such an\narrangement. Marie's equally ready surrender of any right she might\nhave to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had perhaps\nsome effect in softening the elder lady's heart. She thus was in\npossession of a treasure of her own,--though a treasure small in\ncomparison with that of the younger woman; and the younger woman had\npromised that in the event of her marriage she would be liberal.\n\nIt was distinctly understood that they were both to go to New York\nunder Mr. Fisker's guidance as soon as things should be sufficiently\nsettled to allow of their departure; and Madame Melmotte was told,\nabout the middle of August, that their places had been taken for the\n3rd of September. But nothing more was told her. She did not as yet\nknow whether Marie was to go out free or as the affianced bride of\nHamilton Fisker. And she felt herself injured by being left so much\nin the dark. She herself was inimical to Fisker, regarding him as a\ndark, designing man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her\nhusband had left behind him,--and trusted herself entirely to Croll,\nwho was personally attentive to her. Fisker was, of course, going\non to San Francisco. Marie also had talked of crossing the American\ncontinent. But Madame Melmotte was disposed to think that for her,\nwith her jewels, and such share of the money as Marie might be\ninduced to give her, New York would be the most fitting residence.\nWhy should she drag herself across the continent to California? Herr\nCroll had declared his purpose of remaining in New York. Then it\noccurred to the lady that as Melmotte was a name which might be too\nwell known in New York, and which it therefore might be wise to\nchange, Croll would do as well as any other. She and Herr Croll had\nknown each other for a great many years, and were, she thought, of\nabout the same age. Croll had some money saved. She had, at any rate,\nher jewels,--and Croll would probably be able to get some portion of\nall that money, which ought to be hers, if his affairs were made to\nbe identical with her own. So she smiled upon Croll, and whispered\nto him; and when she had given Croll two glasses of Curaçoa,--which\ncomforter she kept in her own hands, as safe-guarded almost as the\njewels,--then Croll understood her.\n\nBut it was essential that she should know what Marie intended to do.\nMarie was anything but communicative, and certainly was not in any\nway submissive. \"My dear,\" she said one day, asking the question in\nFrench, without any preface or apology, \"are you going to be married\nto Mr. Fisker?\"\n\n\"What makes you ask that?\"\n\n\"It is so important I should know. Where am I to live? What am I to\ndo? What money shall I have? Who will be a friend to me? A woman\nought to know. You will marry Fisker if you like him. Why cannot you\ntell me?\"\n\n\"Because I do not know. When I know I will tell you. If you go on\nasking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more.\"\n\nAnd this was true. She did not know. It certainly was not Fisker's\nfault that she should still be in the dark as to her own destiny, for\nhe had asked her often enough, and had pressed his suit with all his\neloquence. But Marie had now been wooed so often that she felt the\nimportance of the step which was suggested to her. The romance of\nthe thing was with her a good deal worn, and the material view of\nmatrimony had also been damaged in her sight. She had fallen in love\nwith Sir Felix Carbury, and had assured herself over and over again\nthat she worshipped the very ground on which he stood. But she had\ntaught herself this business of falling in love as a lesson, rather\nthan felt it. After her father's first attempts to marry her to this\nand that suitor because of her wealth,--attempts which she had hardly\nopposed amidst the consternation and glitter of the world to which\nshe was suddenly introduced,--she had learned from novels that it\nwould be right that she should be in love, and she had chosen Sir\nFelix as her idol. The reader knows what had been the end of that\nepisode in her life. She certainly was not now in love with Sir Felix\nCarbury. Then she had as it were relapsed into the hands of Lord\nNidderdale,--one of her early suitors,--and had felt that as love was\nnot to prevail, and as it would be well that she should marry some\none, he might probably be as good as any other, and certainly better\nthan many others. She had almost learned to like Lord Nidderdale and\nto believe that he liked her, when the tragedy came. Lord Nidderdale\nhad been very good-natured,--but he had deserted her at last. She\nhad never allowed herself to be angry with him for a moment. It had\nbeen a matter of course that he should do so. Her fortune was still\nlarge, but not so large as the sum named in the bargain made. And it\nwas moreover weighted with her father's blood. From the moment of\nher father's death she had never dreamed that he would marry her.\nWhy should he? Her thoughts in reference to Sir Felix were bitter\nenough;--but as against Nidderdale they were not at all bitter.\nShould she ever meet him again she would shake hands with him and\nsmile,--if not pleasantly as she thought of the things which were\npast,--at any rate with good humour. But all this had not made\nher much in love with matrimony generally. She had over a hundred\nthousand pounds of her own, and, feeling conscious of her own power\nin regard to her own money, knowing that she could do as she pleased\nwith her wealth, she began to look out into life seriously.\n\nWhat could she do with her money, and in what way would she shape her\nlife, should she determine to remain her own mistress? Were she to\nrefuse Fisker how should she begin? He would then be banished, and\nher only remaining friends, the only persons whose names she would\neven know in her own country, would be her father's widow and\nHerr Croll. She already began to see Madame Melmotte's purport in\nreference to Croll, and could not reconcile herself to the idea of\nopening an establishment with them on a scale commensurate with her\nfortune. Nor could she settle in her own mind any pleasant position\nfor herself as a single woman, living alone in perfect independence.\nShe had opinions of women's rights,--especially in regard to money;\nand she entertained also a vague notion that in America a young woman\nwould not need support so essentially as in England. Nevertheless,\nthe idea of a fine house for herself in Boston, or Philadelphia,--for\nin that case she would have to avoid New York as the chosen residence\nof Madame Melmotte,--did not recommend itself to her. As to Fisker\nhimself,--she certainly liked him. He was not beautiful like Felix\nCarbury, nor had he the easy good-humour of Lord Nidderdale. She had\nseen enough of English gentlemen to know that Fisker was very unlike\nthem. But she had not seen enough of English gentlemen to make Fisker\ndistasteful to her. He told her that he had a big house at San\nFrancisco, and she certainly desired to live in a big house. He\nrepresented himself to be a thriving man, and she calculated that\nhe certainly would not be here, in London, arranging her father's\naffairs, were he not possessed of commercial importance. She had\ncontrived to learn that, in the United States, a married woman\nhas greater power over her own money than in England, and this\ninformation acted strongly in Fisker's favour. On consideration of\nthe whole subject she was inclined to think that she would do better\nin the world as Mrs. Fisker than as Marie Melmotte,--if she could see\nher way clearly in the matter of her own money.\n\n\"I have got excellent berths,\" Fisker said to her one morning at\nHampstead. At these interviews, which were devoted first to business\nand then to love, Madame Melmotte was never allowed to be present.\n\n\"I am to be alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. There is a cabin for Madame Melmotte and the maid, and a\ncabin for you. Everything will be comfortable. And there is another\nlady going,--Mrs. Hurtle,--whom I think you will like.\"\n\n\"Has she a husband?\"\n\n\"Not going with us,\" said Mr. Fisker evasively.\n\n\"But she has one?\"\n\n\"Well, yes;--but you had better not mention him. He is not exactly\nall that a husband should be.\"\n\n\"Did she not come over here to marry some one else?\"--For Marie in\nthe days of her sweet intimacy with Sir Felix Carbury had heard\nsomething of Mrs. Hurtle's story.\n\n\"There is a story, and I dare say I shall tell you all about it some\nday. But you may be sure I should not ask you to associate with any\none you ought not to know.\"\n\n\"Oh,--I can take care of myself.\"\n\n\"No doubt, Miss Melmotte,--no doubt. I feel that quite strongly.\nBut what I meant to observe was this,--that I certainly should not\nintroduce a lady whom I aspire to make my own lady to any lady whom\na lady oughtn't to know. I hope I make myself understood, Miss\nMelmotte.\"\n\n\"Oh, quite.\"\n\n\"And perhaps I may go on to say that if I could go on board that\nship as your accepted lover, I could do a deal more to make you\ncomfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere friend,\nMiss Melmotte. You can't doubt my heart.\"\n\n\"I don't see why I shouldn't. Gentlemen's hearts are things very much\nto be doubted as far as I've seen 'em. I don't think many of 'em have\n'em at all.\"\n\n\"Miss Melmotte, you do not know the glorious west. Your past\nexperiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold country\nin which passion is no longer allowed to sway. On those golden shores\nwhich the Pacific washes man is still true,--and woman is still\ntender.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I'd better wait and see, Mr. Fisker.\"\n\nBut this was not Mr. Fisker's view of the case. There might be other\nmen desirous of being true on those golden shores. \"And then,\" said\nhe, pleading his cause not without skill, \"the laws regulating\nwoman's property there are just the reverse of those which the\ngreediness of man has established here. The wife there can claim\nher share of her husband's property, but hers is exclusively her\nown. America is certainly the country for women,--and especially\nCalifornia.\"\n\n\"Ah;--I shall find out all about it, I suppose, when I've been there\na few months.\"\n\n\"But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such much\nbetter auspices,--if I may be allowed to say so,--as a married lady\nor as a lady just going to be married.\"\n\n\"Ain't single ladies much thought of in California?\"\n\n\"It isn't that. Come, Miss Melmotte, you know what I mean.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"Let us go in for life together. We've both done uncommon well. I'm\nspending 30,000 dollars a year,--at that rate,--in my own house.\nYou'll see it all. If we put them both together,--what's yours and\nwhat's mine,--we can put our foot out as far as about any one there,\nI guess.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I care about putting my foot out. I've seen\nsomething of that already, Mr. Fisker. You shouldn't put your foot\nout farther than you can draw it in again.\"\n\n\"You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte. I shouldn't be able\nto touch a dollar of your money. It would be such a triumph to go\ninto Francisco as man and wife.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a while and\nlooked about me.\"\n\n\"And seen the house! Well;--there's something in that. The house is\nall there, I can tell you. I'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like\nthe house. But if we were engaged, I could do every thing for you.\nWhere would you be, going into San Francisco all alone? Oh, Miss\nMelmotte, I do admire you so much!\"\n\nI doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy. But the\narguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certain\nextent. \"I'll tell you how it must be then,\" she said.\n\n\"How shall it be?\" and as he asked the question he jumped up and put\nhis arm round her waist.\n\n\"Not like that, Mr. Fisker,\" she said, withdrawing herself. \"It shall\nbe in this way. You may consider yourself engaged to me.\"\n\n\"I'm the happiest man on this continent,\" he said, forgetting in his\necstasy that he was not in the United States.\n\n\"But if I find when I get to Francisco anything to induce me to\nchange my mind, I shall change it. I like you very well, but I'm not\ngoing to take a leap in the dark, and I'm not going to marry a pig in\na poke.\"\n\n\"There you're quite right,\" he said,--\"quite right.\"\n\n\"You may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and I'll\ntell Madame Melmotte the same. She and Croll don't mean going any\nfarther than New York.\"\n\n\"We needn't break our hearts about that;--need we?\"\n\n\"It don't much signify. Well;--I'll go on with Mrs. Hurtle, if she'll\nhave me.\"\n\n\"Too much delighted she'll be.\"\n\n\"And she shall be told we're engaged.\"\n\n\"My darling!\"\n\n\"But if I don't like it when I get to Frisco, as you call it, all the\nropes in California shan't make me do it. Well;--yes; you may give\nme a kiss I suppose now if you care about it.\" And so,--or rather so\nfar,--Mr. Fisker and Marie Melmotte became engaged to each other as\nman and wife.\n\nAfter that Mr. Fisker's remaining business in England went very\nsmoothly with him. It was understood up at Hampstead that he was\nengaged to Marie Melmotte,--and it soon came to be understood also\nthat Madame Melmotte was to be married to Herr Croll. No doubt the\nfather of the one lady and the husband of the other had died so\nrecently as to make these arrangements subject to certain censorious\nobjections. But there was a feeling that Melmotte had been so unlike\nother men, both in his life and in his death, that they who had been\nconcerned with him were not to be weighed by ordinary scales. Nor did\nit much matter, for the persons concerned took their departure soon\nafter the arrangement was made, and Hampstead knew them no more.\n\nOn the 3rd of September Madame Melmotte, Marie, Mrs. Hurtle, Hamilton\nK. Fisker, and Herr Croll left Liverpool for New York; and the three\nladies were determined that they never would revisit a country of\nwhich their reminiscences certainly were not happy. The writer of the\npresent chronicle may so far look forward,--carrying his reader with\nhim,--as to declare that Marie Melmotte did become Mrs. Fisker very\nsoon after her arrival at San Francisco.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCIX.\n\nLADY CARBURY AND MR. BROUNE.\n\n\nWhen Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that\nhe intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign\ntravel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant\ndivine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune\nsome years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeed\na sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to\nhis statements. That he should have intended to produce a false\nimpression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he\nshould have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have\nknown that no one would believe. He was going to Germany, and he was\ngoing in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he\nshould remain there for the next twelve months. A representation had\nlately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestants\nsettled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of\nPrussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself\nin the matter. A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself,\nbut the income suggested was very small. The Protestant English\npopulation of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not\nliberal. It had come to pass that the \"Morning Breakfast Table\" had\ninterested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions\nafter a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those\nconcerned in the matter had fully understood that if the \"Morning\nBreakfast Table\" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the\nthing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had\nat last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as\nwith all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the\nRev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had\nbeen induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir\nFelix Carbury for a consideration. Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blake\nall that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel\nas to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining\non the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the\nmeans of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wish\nthat Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a\ncomparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that\nshould be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a\nyoung gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but\nespecially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy\nreturn to England of the young gentleman himself.\n\nLady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult\nas was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not\nendure the idea of driving him into exile. But Mr. Broune was very\nobstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of\nheart. \"What is to be the end of it then?\" he said to her, almost in\nanger. For in those days the great editor, when in presence of Lady\nCarbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeeze\nher hand and look into her eyes. His manner with her had become so\ndifferent that she regarded him as quite another person. She hardly\ndared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell\nhim what she really felt and thought. \"Do you mean to let him eat\nup everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the\nworkhouse with him?\"\n\n\"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid\nthings.\"\n\n\"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself\ncompelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be\nin his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can\nhe do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the\nlife he is leading?\"\n\n\"If he could only be married!\"\n\n\"Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw\nherself away upon him?\"\n\n\"He is so handsome.\"\n\n\"What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me\ntell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him\nhere you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He\nhas agreed to go;--let him go.\"\n\nShe was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented,\nit was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr.\nBroune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with\nwhich he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. \"Your\nmother,\" said Mr. Broune, \"has made up her mind that she will\nnot absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your\nindulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make you\ngo to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and,\nunless you go, she will do so.\"\n\n\"I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune.\"\n\n\"No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her\npresence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so.\nYou may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take\nher advice £175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you\nremain in England not a shilling further will be paid.\" He had no\nmoney. His last sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would\ngive him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the\ndoor had been taken away from him. The very page treated him with\ncontumely. His clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect\nof amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did not\nanticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought that\nany change must be a change for the better. He assented, therefore,\nto the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to the\nRev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last\ndinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate\nfuture to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his\ndeparture.\n\nMr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass to\ngrow under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with\nMr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull\nfor Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last\nfive-pound note from his foolish mother. \"It will be just enough to\nbring him home,\" said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told\nof this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that\nFelix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as\nsuch a purpose would indicate. \"It will be gone,\" she said, \"long\nbefore they reach their destination.\"\n\n\"Then why the deuce should you give it him?\" said Mr. Broune.\n\nMr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a\nyear's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.\nIndeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that\nunfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming\nsubject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her,\nthree or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and\ngave her instructions as to all that she should do. \"I wouldn't write\nanother novel if I were you,\" he said. This was hard, as the writing\nof novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that\nthe one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic\nhad declared it to be very good in glowing language. The \"Evening\nPulpit\" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the\n\"Evening Pulpit\" to abuse. So she had argued with herself, telling\nherself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come\nfrom malice. After that article in the \"Breakfast Table,\" it did seem\nhard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels. She\nlooked up at him piteously but said nothing. \"I don't think you'd\nfind it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great many\nothers. But then that is saying so little!\"\n\n\"I thought I could make some money.\"\n\n\"I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I\ndon't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else.\"\n\n\"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does.\"\n\nTo this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for\na while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning\nLady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from\nher daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly\nkeep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means\npermitted it. What should she do with herself? Whither should she\ntake herself? Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from\nthose words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels. After\nall, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other\nwomen around her! That very morning she had prided herself on her\ncoming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in\nthe \"Breakfast Table.\" Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so\ncommon to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. He would\nnot thus have crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her\nnow,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occur\nto her to rebel against him. After what he had said, of course there\nwould be no more praise in the \"Breakfast Table,\"--and, equally of\ncourse, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more she\nthought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she\nthought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have\nfallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary\ncareer not much more than twelve months ago.\n\nOn the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle,\nwretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming\nmarriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her\nbroken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr.\nBroune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first\nchapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should even\nlook at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent\nthe evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with\nher cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought\nof her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a\nbroken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after\na fashion, repent. It was all \"leather or prunello,\" as she said to\nherself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real\nenjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself to\nbelieve that some day something would come which she would like;--but\nshe had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been\nin anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr.\nBroune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more\nnovels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!\n\nThe next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very\nwretched. \"I shall give up this house,\" she said. \"I can't afford to\nkeep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know\nwhere to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will\nbe the same to me now.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should say that.\"\n\n\"What does it matter?\"\n\n\"You wouldn't think of going out of London.\"\n\n\"Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest.\"\n\n\"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see\nyou,\" said Mr. Broune plaintively.\n\n\"So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody.\nBut what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some\nmiserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I\nam wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes,\nso that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta\ndoesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to.\"\n\n\"I want you,\" said Mr. Broune, very quietly.\n\n\"Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good\nas goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the\nacceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because\nI have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost\ndaily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?\"\n\n\"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two\nor three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly,\nif I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has\nbeen altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced\nmyself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still,\nI have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best\ncontribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it\nwould mar yours.\"\n\nThis was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that\nthe words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at\nfirst brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his\noffer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her\nfeel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not\nthat she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor\ninsipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that\nit could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of\nherself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and\nlittlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such\na man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At this\nmoment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either\nperhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the\nface, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with\nhis eyes intent on her countenance. \"Well,\" he said; \"what do you\nthink of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me\nbefore, because I thought that you did so because it was not right\nthat I should be embarrassed by your son.\"\n\n\"That was the reason,\" she said, almost in a whisper.\n\n\"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will\naccept me.\"\n\nThe long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The\nambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a\nhandsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven\nher to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she\nreturned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she\nhad never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London,\nher literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her\nson's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in\nany of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been\nheaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within\nher reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding\nto a firm bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted\nkiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had\ntold herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly\nhad not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature.\nNor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then,\nand that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since\nchanged,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. As\nhe remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. \"You\ncan hardly have thought of it enough,\" she said.\n\n\"I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for\nsix months at least.\"\n\n\"There is so much against me.\"\n\n\"What is there against you?\"\n\n\"They say bad things of me in India.\"\n\n\"I know all about that,\" replied Mr. Broune.\n\n\"And Felix!\"\n\n\"I think I may say that I know all about that also.\"\n\n\"And then I have become so poor!\"\n\n\"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily\nfor me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I\nshould do so.\"\n\n\"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't\nknow what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer\nto give to me.\"\n\n\"Yourself,\" he said, stretching out his right hand to her. And there\nhe sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled\nto put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute\nwords. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without\nlooking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was\nkneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering\ntheir ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. They\nwould certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that\nany one could have seen them. But how many absurdities of the kind\nare not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they\nremain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that Age\nis ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the\ndisplay of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, and\nwhich Age regrets.\n\nOn that occasion there was very little more said between them. He had\ncertainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he went\ndown to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not\nonly for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won\nhim more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.\n\nShe, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a\nthorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a\nperfect blank to her. There was no single object of interest before\nher. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound\nher to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection\nand truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than\nwhom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful.\nWas it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a\nman, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?\n\nWhether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are\nrealised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell;\nbut they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady\nCarbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her own\nresolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street was\nkept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by\nthe literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER C.\n\nDOWN IN SUFFOLK.\n\n\nIt need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjusting\nhis affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from Roger\nCarbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in Welbeck\nStreet, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carbury\nkept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to\nthrow in fact very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understood\nperfectly that she was in this matter stronger than her mother\nand that she need fear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was on\nher side. \"I don't know what you mean to live on,\" Lady Carbury\nsaid, threatening future evils in a plaintive tone. Hetta repeated,\nthough in other language, the assurance which the young lady made\nwho declared that if her future husband would consent to live on\npotatoes, she would be quite satisfied with the potato-peelings;\nwhile Paul made some vague allusion to the satisfactory nature of his\nfinal arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.\n\"I don't see anything like an income,\" said Lady Carbury; \"but I\nsuppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himself\nnow it seems.\" But this was before the halcyon day of Mr. Broune's\nsecond offer.\n\nIt was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the time\nfixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. When this was\nfinally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home,\nconceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass the\nautumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that she\nmight get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill;\nand with that object he induced Mrs. Yeld, the Bishop's wife, to\ninvite her down to the palace. Hetta accepted the invitation and left\nLondon before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement\nwith Mr. Broune.\n\nRoger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not brought\nhimself to determine that he would recognise Paul and Hetta\nas acknowledged lovers,--without a fierce inward contest. Two\nconvictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposed\nto this recognition,--the first telling him that he would be a fitter\nhusband for the girl than Paul Montague, and the second assuring him\nthat Paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness\nwould be both foolish and unmanly. For Roger, though he was\na religious man, and one anxious to conform to the spirit of\nChristianity, would not allow himself to think that an injury should\nbe forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of his own\ninjustice. As to giving his coat to the thief who had taken his\ncloak,--he told himself that were he and others to be guided by\nthat precept honest industry would go naked in order that vice and\nidleness might be comfortably clothed. If any one stole his cloak he\nwould certainly put that man in prison as soon as possible and not\ncommence his lenience till the thief should at any rate affect to be\nsorry for his fault. Now, to his thinking, Paul Montague had stolen\nhis cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in this matter of his\nlove, he would be giving Paul his coat also. No! He was bound after\nsome fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a\njury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of\npunishment might be at least pronounced. How then could he yield?\n\nAnd Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to\nwomen. It might be,--no doubt it was true,--that Mrs. Hurtle's\nappearance in England had been distressing to him. But still he\nhad gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger's\nthinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband\nof Hetta Carbury. He would himself tell no tales against Montague\non that head. Even when pressed to do so he had told no tale. But\nnot the less was his conviction strong that Hetta ought to know the\ntruth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject her younger\nlover.\n\nBut then over these convictions there came a third,--equally\nstrong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did\nnot love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a\nman to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. As\nhe walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped\nbehind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace\nwall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the\none idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only,\ncould be his duty. What did love mean if not that? What could be the\ndevotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to\nself-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one? A man would incur any\ndanger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would even\ndie for her! But if this were done simply with the object of winning\nher, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf\nof another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that the\nthing must be done. The man, though he had been bad to his friend,\nwas not all bad. He was one who might become good in good hands.\nHe, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoy\nhimself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness.\nWhat right had he to think that he could judge of that better than\nthe girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, he\nsucceeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it he\ncrushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energies\nof his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. Paul\nMontague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolve\nwhen last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from\nPaul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.\n\nWhen he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and\nof assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival's\nwife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit\nthan he had been during those months in which there had still been\ndoubt. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself\ncould certainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quite\nsure. Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy\non condition that such boy should take the old name. He would never\nhave a child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he could\ninduce these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least\na part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place,\nhe thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an\ninterest in the property. But as a first step to this he must learn\nto regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too\nfar for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote\nhimself to make happy the homes of others.\n\nSo thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his\nstory to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those\nrevelations Mrs. Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Roger\nfelt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriage\nwhich could be said in the country much better than in town, and he\nwished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to which she\nshould be attached and in which she was to find her home. The day\nbefore she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of asking\npermission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, but\nin truth with the idea of talking about Hetta to the only friend to\nwhom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble. \"As to settling your\nproperty on her or her children,\" said the Bishop, \"it is quite out\nof the question. Your lawyer would not allow you to do it. Where\nwould you be if after all you were to marry?\"\n\n\"I shall never marry.\"\n\n\"Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age to\nspeak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in\nthat respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your\nproperty;--and the will, when made, can be revoked.\"\n\n\"I think you hardly understand just what I feel,\" said Roger, \"and\nI know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act\nexactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if\nshe had a son, would be my natural heir.\"\n\n\"But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural\nheir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you\nmight have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which\nproperly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly\nbelong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very\nhighly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than\nwell of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human\nnature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your\nown disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete\nobservance of your wishes.\"\n\n\"I do not believe it in the least, my lord,\" said Roger somewhat\nangrily.\n\n\"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the\npresent moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are\nnot, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their\ndaughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the\nfolly of the old king. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the\nfool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' The world,\nI take it, thinks that the fool was right.\"\n\nThe Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of\nsettling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not on\nthat account the less resolute in his determination to make himself\nand his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When he\ncame over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the\ngarden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. \"I hope all\nour troubles are over now,\" he said smiling.\n\n\"You mean about Felix,\" said Hetta,--\"and mamma?\"\n\n\"No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the best\nthing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and\nMr. Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself,\nI hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding to\nFelix and your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself.\"\n\n\"I hope that you will never have any troubles.\"\n\n\"I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear.\nI was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--when\nI was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought\nnot to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should\nhave known that I was too old to have a chance.\"\n\n\"Oh, Roger,--it was not that.\"\n\n\"Well,--that and other things. I should have known it sooner, and\nhave got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly and\nstronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's\nlife, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainly\nmarked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn\nfrom them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is done\nnow. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I\nlook forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the\nsource of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as though\nhe were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I ask\nof you is that you will not be chary of your presence there.\" She\nonly answered him by a close pressure on his arm. \"That is what I\nwanted to say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your\nbest and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest right\nto depend, of all,--except your husband.\"\n\n\"There is no teaching necessary for that,\" she said.\n\n\"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta.\nYou will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly,\nand already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young\nand foolish.\"\n\n\"You never were foolish.\"\n\n\"Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me\nthis. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his\nresidence.\"\n\n\"We have no plans as yet at all, Roger.\"\n\n\"Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my\nplan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?\"\n\n\"What will mamma say?\"\n\n\"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard as\nsettled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should\nlearn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your\nhome really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire\nof Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough\nto fill that exalted position.\" With all his love to her and his\ngood-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul\nMontague should be Squire of Carbury.\n\n\"Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that.\"\n\n\"But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishes\nare, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mind\nis quite made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to\ndictate to you,--and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"Pray,--pray do not call him Mr. Montague.\"\n\n\"Well, I will not;--to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger.\"\nHe threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation\nto the air. \"I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it\nis right that you should know that I hold my property as steward\nfor those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my\nstewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those for\nwhom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter. It is\nthe only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"There goes the last of my anger.\"]\n\n\n\"But Felix, Roger!\"\n\nHis brow became a little black as he answered her. \"To a sister,\"\nhe said very solemnly, \"I will not say a word against her brother;\nbut on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on my\nown judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I\nmay say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the\nmatter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are as\nmuch together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to\nunderstand them. The disposition of a family property, even though\nit be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man\nshould not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with\nhis own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and\nhe owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to\nsay so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and\nwho have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in\nthe hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. In\nwhat I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of\nmy life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course\nI am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded.\nI do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that.\" He\nhad spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand\nall that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any\nfurther. He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but\nhaving explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed\na daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the\nhouse.\n\nSoon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same\nthing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was\nreceived quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw\nall anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly\nkept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings.\nAs to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment\nwhich had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his\nfortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity\nthat any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed\nmade a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of\nHetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward\nto a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind\nher of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenants\nand the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and\nof the necessity of so living that the income might always be more\nthan sufficient for the wants of the household.\n\nWhen the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishop\nat the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away the\nbride. All those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had\nnot seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who was\nthere with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, having\noccupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old Daniel\nRuggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his\nown. \"John, what a fool you are!\" Ruby said to her spouse, when this\nopinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. \"Yes, I be,\" said\nJohn,--\"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you.\" \"No,\nJohn; it was I was the fool then,\" said Ruby. \"We'll see about that\nwhen the bairn's born,\" said John,--equally aloud. Then Ruby held\nher tongue. Mrs. Broune, and Mr. Broune, were also at Carbury,--thus\ndoing great honour to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montague, and showing by\ntheir presence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix was\nnot there. Happily up to this time Mr. Septimus Blake had continued\nto keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in the\nGerman town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself."