summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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Title: The Way We Live Now

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<h1>THE WAY WE LIVE NOW</h1>

<h2>by Anthony Trollope</h2>
<br>
<br>
<h3>CONTENTS</h3>
</center>


<table>

<tr><td align="right">Chapter&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td></td>
<tr><td align="right">I.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#1" >Three Editors</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">II.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#2" >The Carbury Family</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">III.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#3" >The Beargarden</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#4" >Madame Melmotte's Ball</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">V.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#5" >After the Ball</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#6" >Roger Carbury and Paul Montague</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#7" >Mentor</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#8" >Love-Sick</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#9" >The Great Railway to Vera Cruz</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">X.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#10">Mr Fisker's Success</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#11">Lady Carbury at Home</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#12">Sir Felix in His Mother's House</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#13">The Longestaffes</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#14">Carbury Manor</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#15">"You should remember that I am his Mother"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#16">The Bishop and the Priest</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#17">Marie Melmotte Hears a Love Tale</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#18">Ruby Ruggles Hears a Love Tale</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#19">Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#20">Lady Pomona's Dinner Party</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#21">Everybody Goes to Them</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#22">Lord Nidderdale's Morality</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#23">"Yes;&mdash;I'm a Baronet"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#24">Miles Grendall's Triumph</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#25">In Grosvenor Square</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#26">Mrs Hurtle</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#27">Mrs Hurtle Goes to the Play</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#28">Dolly Longestaffe Goes into the City</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#29">Miss Melmotte's Courage</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#30">Mr Melmotte's Promise</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#31">Mr Broune Has Made up His Mind</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#32">Lady Monogram</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#33">John Crumb</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#34">Ruby Ruggles Obeys Her Grandfather</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#35">Melmotte's Glory</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#36">Mr Broune's Perils</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#37">The Board-Room</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td> <td><a href="#38">Paul Montague's Troubles</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XXXIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#39">"I do love him"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XL.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#40">"Unanimity is the very soul of these things"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#41">All Prepared</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#42">"Can You Be Ready in Ten Minutes?"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#43">The City Road</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#44">The Coming Election</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#45">Mr Melmotte Is Pressed for Time</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#46">Roger Carbury and His Two Friends</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#47">Mrs Hurtle at Lowestoft</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#48">Ruby a Prisoner</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XLIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#49">Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">L.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>       <td><a href="#50">The Journey to Liverpool</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#51">Which Shall It Be?</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#52">The Results of Love and Wine</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#53">A Day in the City</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#54">The India Office</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#55">Clerical Charities</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#56">Father Barham Visits London</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#57">Lord Nidderdale Tries His Hand Again</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#58">Mr Squercum Is Employed</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#59">The Dinner</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#60">Miss Longestaffe's Lover</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#61">Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#62">The Party</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#63">Mr Melmotte on the Day of the Election</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#64">The Election</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#65">Miss Longestaffe Writes Home</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#66">"So Shall Be My Enmity"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#67">Sir Felix Protects His Sister</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#68">Miss Melmotte Declares Her Purpose</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#69">Melmotte in Parliament</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#70">Sir Felix Meddles with Many Matters</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#71">John Crumb Falls into Trouble</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#72">"Ask Himself"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#73">Marie's Fortune</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#74">Melmotte Makes a Friend</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#75">In Bruton Street</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#76">Hetta and Her Lover</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#77">Another Scene in Bruton Street</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td> <td><a href="#78">Miss Longestaffe Again at Caversham</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#79">The Brehgert Correspondence</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#80">Ruby Prepares for Service</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#81">Mr Cohenlupe Leaves London</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#82">Marie's Perseverance</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td> <td><a href="#83">Melmotte Again at the House</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#84">Paul Montague's Vindication</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#85">Breakfast in Berkeley Square</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#86">The Meeting in Bruton Street</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td> <td><a href="#87">Down at Carbury</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td><a href="#88">The Inquest</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">LXXXIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#89">"The Wheel of Fortune"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XC.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#90">Hetta's Sorrow</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#91">The Rivals</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#92">Hamilton K. Fisker Again</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#93">A True Lover</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#94">John Crumb's Victory</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCV.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>     <td><a href="#95">The Longestaffe Marriages</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#96">Where "The Wild Asses Quench Their Thirst"</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>   <td><a href="#97">Mrs Hurtle's Fate</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>  <td><a href="#98">Marie Melmotte's Fate</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">XCIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>    <td><a href="#99">Lady Carbury and Mr Broune</a></td>
<tr><td align="right">C.&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>      <td><a href="#100">Down in Suffolk</a></td>

</table>

<br>
<a name="1"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER I.&nbsp; Three Editors</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character
and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have,
as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in
Welbeck Street.&nbsp; Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, and
wrote many letters,&mdash;wrote also very much beside letters.&nbsp; She
spoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature, always
spelling the word with a big L.&nbsp; Something of the nature of her
devotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this
morning she had written with a quickly running hand.&nbsp; Lady Carbury
was rapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing
of letters.&nbsp; Here is Letter No. 1;&mdash;
<br>

<blockquote>
<i>
<br>
Thursday, Welbeck Street.<br>
<br>
DEAR FRIEND,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have taken care that you shall have
the early sheets of my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at
latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like
myself a lift in your next week's paper.&nbsp; Do give a poor
struggler a lift.&nbsp; You and I have so much in common, and I have
ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends!&nbsp; I do not
flatter you when I say, that not only would aid from you help me more
than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would
gratify my vanity more than any other praise.&nbsp; I almost think
you will like my "Criminal Queens."&nbsp; The sketch of Semiramis is
at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to
bring her in guilty.&nbsp; Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from
Shakespeare.&nbsp; What a wench she was!&nbsp; I could not quite make
Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a
character.&nbsp; You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the
empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon.&nbsp; Poor dear old
Belisarius!&nbsp; I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I
could not bring myself to care for her.&nbsp; In our days she would
simply have gone to Broadmore.&nbsp; I hope you will not think that I
have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII and his sinful
but unfortunate Howard.&nbsp; I don't care a bit about Anne
Boleyne.&nbsp; I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great
length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my
favourite.&nbsp; What a woman!&nbsp; What a devil!&nbsp; Pity that a
second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell.&nbsp;
How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch
Mary.&nbsp; I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of
Scots.&nbsp; Guilty! guilty always!&nbsp; Adultery, murder, treason,
and all the rest of it.&nbsp; But recommended to mercy because she
was royal.&nbsp; A queen bred, born and married, and with such other
queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty?&nbsp;
Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted.&nbsp; It would be
uninteresting;&mdash;perhaps untrue.&nbsp; I have accused her lovingly,
and have kissed when I scourged.&nbsp; I trust the British public
will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as
I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I must not take up your time by
sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that I am
writing what none but yourself will read.&nbsp; Do it yourself, like
a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful.&nbsp; Or rather, as
you are a friend, be loving.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours gratefully and faithfully,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MATILDA CARBURY.
<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After all how few women there are who
can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and
make themselves anything but playthings for men.&nbsp; Of almost all
these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some
phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being
wives.&nbsp; I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read
everything, why should not an old woman write anything?<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>
<p>This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of
the "Morning Breakfast Table," a daily newspaper of high character;
and, as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most
important of the three.&nbsp; Mr Broune was a man powerful in his
profession,&mdash;and he was fond of ladies.&nbsp; Lady Carbury in her
letter had called herself an old woman, but she was satisfied to do so
by a conviction that no one else regarded her in that light.&nbsp; Her
age shall be no secret to the reader, though to her most intimate
friends, even to Mr Broune, it had never been divulged.&nbsp; She was
forty-three, but carried her years so well, and had received such
gifts from nature, that it was impossible to deny that she was still a
beautiful woman.&nbsp; And she used her beauty not only to increase
her influence,&mdash;as is natural to women who are well-favoured,&mdash;but
also with a well-considered calculation that she could obtain material
assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was very
necessary to Her, by a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good
things with which providence had endowed her.&nbsp; She did not fall
in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but
she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her
own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond
between her and them&mdash;if only mysterious circumstances would permit
it.&nbsp; But the end of all was to induce some one to do something
which would cause a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent
writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case,
he should have been severe.&nbsp; Among all her literary friends, Mr
Broune was the one in whom she most trusted; and Mr Broune was fond of
handsome women.&nbsp; It may be as well to give a short record of a
scene which had taken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about
a month before the writing of this letter which has been
produced.&nbsp; She had wanted him to take a series of papers for the
"Morning Breakfast Table," and to have them paid for at rate No. 1,
whereas she suspected that he was rather doubtful as to their merit,
and knew that, without special favour, she could not hope for
remuneration above rate No. 2, or possibly even No. 3.&nbsp; So she
had looked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a
moment in his.&nbsp; A man in such circumstances is so often awkward,
not knowing with any accuracy when to do one thing and when
another!&nbsp; Mr Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm
round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her.&nbsp; To say that Lady
Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so treated, would
be to give an unjust idea of her character.&nbsp; It was a little
accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it should be
the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and a valuable
ally.&nbsp; No feeling of delicacy was shocked.&nbsp; What did it
matter?&nbsp; No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had
been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at
once to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

<p>Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm,
and then made him an excellent little speech.&nbsp; "Mr Broune, how
foolish, how wrong, how mistaken!&nbsp; Is it not so?&nbsp; Surely
you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!"

<p>"Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury!&nbsp; Oh, certainly
not that."

<p>"Then why risk it by such an act?&nbsp; Think of my son and of my
daughter,&mdash;both grown up.&nbsp; Think of the past troubles of my
life,&mdash;so much suffered and so little deserved.&nbsp; No one knows
them so well as you do.&nbsp; Think of my name, that has been so often
slandered but never disgraced!&nbsp; Say that you are sorry, and it
shall be forgotten."

<p>When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to
say the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done.&nbsp;
It is as much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his
expectation.&nbsp; Mr Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady
Carbury did not quite expect it.&nbsp; "You know that for world I
would not offend you," he said.&nbsp; This sufficed.&nbsp; Lady
Carbury again looked into his eyes, and a promise was given that the
articles should be printed&mdash;and with generous remuneration.

<p>When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been
quite successful.&nbsp; Of course when struggles have to be made and
hard work done, there will be little accidents.&nbsp; The lady who
uses a street cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer
neighbour, who has a private carriage, will escape.&nbsp; She would
have preferred not to have been kissed;&mdash;but what did it matter?&nbsp;
With Mr Broune the affair was more serious.&nbsp; "Confound them all,"
he said to himself as he left the house; "no amount of experience
enables a man to know them."&nbsp; As he went away he almost thought
that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss her again, and he was
almost angry with himself in that he had not done so.&nbsp; He had
seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated the offence.

<p>We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were
addressed to the editors of other newspapers.&nbsp; The second was
written to Mr Booker, of the "Literary Chronicle."&nbsp; Mr Booker
was a hard-working professor of literature, by no means without
talent, by no means without influence, and by no means without a
conscience.&nbsp; But, from the nature of the struggles in which he
had been engaged, by compromises which had gradually been driven upon
him by the encroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the
demands on the other of employers who looked only to their profits,
he had fallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult
to be scrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of
a literary conscience.&nbsp; He was now a bald-headed old man of
sixty, with a large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow
dependent on him with two little children.&nbsp; He had five hundred
a year for editing the "Literary Chronicle," which, through his
energy, had become a valuable property.&nbsp; He wrote for magazines,
and brought out some book of his own almost annually.&nbsp; He kept
his head above water, and was regarded by those who knew about him,
but did not know him, as a successful man.&nbsp; He always kept up
his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that he could
hold his own.&nbsp; But he was driven by the stress of circumstances
to take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly afford
to be independent.&nbsp; It must be confessed that literary scruple
had long departed from his mind.&nbsp; Letter No. 2 was as follows;&mdash;
<br>
<blockquote>
<br>
<i>
Welbeck Street, 25th February, 187-.<br>
<br>
DEAR MR BOOKER,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have told Mr Leadham </i>[Mr Leadham
was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as
Messrs. Leadham and Loiter] <i> to send you an early copy of my
"Criminal Queens."&nbsp; I have already settled with my friend Mr
Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast
Table."&nbsp; Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains
with it.&nbsp; If there is anything you wish to have specially said
as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know.&nbsp;
I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical
details, which I know you can safely do.&nbsp; Don't put it off, as
the sale does so much depend on early notices.&nbsp; I am only
getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four
hundred are sold.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours sincerely,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MATILDA CARBURY.<br>
<br>
ALFRED BOOKER, ESQ.,<br>
<br>
"Literary Chronicle" Office, Strand.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>
<p>There was nothing in this which shocked Mr Booker.&nbsp; He
laughed inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought
of Lady Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,&mdash;as he thought
also of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady
must inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed
her to know nothing.&nbsp; But he was quite alive to the fact that a
favourable notice in the "Breakfast Table" of his very thoughtful
work, called the "New Tale of a Tub," would serve him, even though
written by the hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have
no compunction as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the
"Literary Chronicle."&nbsp; He would not probably say that the book
was accurate, but he would be able to declare that it was delightful
reading, that the feminine characteristics of the queens had been
touched with a masterly hand, and that the work was one which would
certainly make its way into all drawing-rooms.&nbsp; He was an adept
at this sort of work, and knew well how to review such a book as Lady
Carbury's "Criminal Queens," without bestowing much trouble on the
reading.&nbsp; He could almost do it without cutting the book, so
that its value for purposes of after sale might not be injured.&nbsp;
And yet Mr Booker was an honest man, and had set his face
persistently against many literary malpractices.&nbsp; Stretched-out
type, insufficient lines, and the French habit of meandering with a
few words over an entire page, had been rebuked by him with
conscientious strength.&nbsp; He was supposed to be rather an
Aristides among reviewers.&nbsp; But circumstanced as he was he could
not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time.&nbsp; "Bad;
of course it is bad," he said to a young friend who was working with
him on his periodical.&nbsp; "Who doubts that?&nbsp; How many very
bad things are there that we do!&nbsp; But if we were to attempt to
reform all our bad ways at once, we should never do any good
thing.&nbsp; I am not strong enough to put the world straight, and I
doubt if you are."&nbsp; Such was Mr Booker.

<p>Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr Ferdinand Alf.&nbsp; Mr Alf
managed, and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the "Evening
Pulpit," which during the last two years had become "quite a
property," as men connected with the press were in the habit of
saying.&nbsp; The "Evening Pulpit" was supposed to give daily to its
readers all that had been said and done up to two o'clock in the day
by all the leading people in the metropolis, and to prophesy with
wonderful accuracy what would be the sayings and doings of the twelve
following hours.&nbsp; This was effected with an air of wonderful
omniscience, and not unfrequently with an ignorance hardly surpassed
by its arrogance.&nbsp; But the writing was clever.&nbsp; The facts,
if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were
seductive.&nbsp; The presiding spirit of the paper had the gift, at
any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he catered would like
to read, and how to get his subjects handled so that the reading
should be pleasant.&nbsp; Mr Booker's "Literary Chronicle" did not
presume to entertain any special political opinions.&nbsp; The
"Breakfast Table" was decidedly Liberal.&nbsp; The "Evening Pulpit"
was much given to politics, but held strictly to the motto which it
had assumed;&mdash;

<blockquote>
  "Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri"
</blockquote>

and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing
what was being done, whether by one side or by the other.&nbsp; A
newspaper that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its
columns and weary its readers by praising anything.&nbsp; Eulogy is
invariably dull,&mdash;a fact that Mr Alf had discovered and had utilized.

<p>Mr Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact.&nbsp; Abuse from
those who occasionally praise is considered to be personally
offensive, and they who give personal offence will sometimes make the
world too hot to hold them.&nbsp; But censure from those who are
always finding fault is regarded so much as a matter of course that
it ceases to be objectionable.&nbsp; The caricaturist, who draws only
caricatures, is held to be justifiable, let him take what liberties
he may with a man's face and person.&nbsp; It is his trade, and his
business calls upon him to vilify all that he touches.&nbsp; But were
an artist to publish a series of portraits, in which two out of a
dozen were made to be hideous, he would certainly make two enemies,
if not more.&nbsp; Mr Alf never made enemies, for he praised no one,
and, as far as the expression of his newspaper went, was satisfied
with nothing.

<p>Personally, Mr Alf was a remarkable man.&nbsp; No one knew whence
he came or what he had been.&nbsp; He was supposed to have been born
a German Jew; and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in
his tongue the slightest possible foreign accent.&nbsp; Nevertheless
it was conceded to him that he knew England as only an Englishman can
know it.&nbsp; During the last year or two he had "come up" as the
phrase goes, and had come up very thoroughly.&nbsp; He had been
blackballed at three or four clubs, but had effected an entrance at
two or three others, and had learned a manner of speaking of those
which had rejected him calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a
conviction that the societies in question were antiquated, imbecile,
and moribund.&nbsp; He was never weary of implying that not to know
Mr Alf, not to be on good terms with Mr Alf, not to understand that
let Mr Alf have been born where he might and how he might he was
always to be recognized as a desirable acquaintance, was to be
altogether out in the dark.&nbsp; And that which he so constantly
asserted, or implied, men and women around him began at last to
believe,&mdash;and Mr Alf became an acknowledged something in the different
worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.

<p>He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying
himself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle
height, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey
but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile
constantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied
by the sharp severity of his eyes.&nbsp; He dressed with the utmost
simplicity, but also with the utmost care.&nbsp; He was unmarried,
had a small house of his own close to Berkeley Square at which he
gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in
Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn &pound;6,000 a year out of the
"Evening Pulpit" and to spend about half of that income.&nbsp; He
also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose
diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had been
unwearied.&nbsp; Her letter to Mr Alf was as follows:
<br>
<blockquote>
<br>
<i>
DEAR MR ALF,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do tell me who wrote the review on
Fitzgerald Barker's last poem.&nbsp; Only I know you won't.&nbsp; I
remember nothing done so well.&nbsp; I should think the poor wretch
will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn.&nbsp; But it
was fully deserved.&nbsp; I have no patience with the pretensions of
would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground influences to
get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table.&nbsp; I know no
one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to
Fitzgerald Barker, but I have heard of no one who has extended the
good nature to the length of reading his poetry.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is it not singular how some men
continue to obtain the reputation of popular authorship without
adding a word to the literature of their country worthy of
note?&nbsp; It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system
of puffing.&nbsp; To puff and to get one's self puffed have become
different branches of a new profession.&nbsp; Alas, me!&nbsp; I wish
I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a
poor tyro as myself.&nbsp; Much as I hate the thing from my very
soul, and much as I admire the consistency with which the "Pulpit"
has opposed it, I myself am so much in want of support for my own
little efforts, and am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself
a remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity offered to
me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells
me that praise should be bought neither by money nor friendship, and
descend among the low things, in order that I might one day have the
pride of feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing for
the needs of my children.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I have not as yet commenced the
descent downwards; and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you
that I shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, to
anything which may appear in the "Pulpit" respecting my "Criminal
Queens."&nbsp; I venture to think that the book,&mdash;though I wrote it
myself,&mdash;has an importance of its own which will secure for it some
notice.&nbsp; That my inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption
scourged I do not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will
be able to certify that the sketches are lifelike and the portraits
well considered.&nbsp; You will not hear me told, at any rate, that I
had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other
day of that poor unfortunate Mrs Effington Stubbs.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have not seen you for the last three
weeks.&nbsp; I have a few friends every Tuesday evening;&mdash;pray come
next week or the week following.&nbsp; And pray believe that no
amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you
otherwise than with a smile.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Most sincerely yours,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MATILDA CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back
in her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though
about to rest.&nbsp; But she soon remembered that the activity of her
life did not admit of such rest.&nbsp; She therefore seized her pen
and began scribbling further notes.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="2"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER II.&nbsp; The Carbury Family</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the
reader in the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be
added.&nbsp; She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she
has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself
could be taken with much confidence.&nbsp; If the reader does not
understand so much from her letters to the three editors they have
been written in vain.&nbsp; She has been made to say that her object
in work was to provide for the need of her children, and that with
that noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself
a career in literature.&nbsp; Detestably false as had been her
letters to the editors, absolutely and abominably foul as was the
entire system by which she was endeavouring to achieve success, far
away from honour and honesty as she had been carried by her ready
subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately fallen,
nevertheless her statements about herself were substantially
true.&nbsp; She had been ill-treated.&nbsp; She had been
slandered.&nbsp; She was true to her children,&mdash;especially devoted to
one of them&mdash;and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she
could advance their interests.

<p>She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since
had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereupon
created a baronet.&nbsp; He had married a young wife late in life
and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had
occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill-used her.&nbsp;
In doing each he had done it abundantly.&nbsp; Among Lady Carbury's
faults had never been that of even incipient,&mdash;not even of
sentimental&mdash;infidelity to her husband.&nbsp; When as a lovely and
penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of
forty-four who had the spending of a large income, she had made up
her mind to abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets
describe and which young people generally desire to experience.&nbsp;
Sir Patrick at the time of his marriage was red-faced, stout, bald,
very choleric, generous in money, suspicious in temper, and
intelligent.&nbsp; He knew how to govern men.&nbsp; He could read and
understand a book.&nbsp; There was nothing mean about him.&nbsp; He
had his attractive qualities.&nbsp; He was a man who might be
loved,&mdash;but he was hardly a man for love.&nbsp; The young Lady
Carbury had understood her position and had determined to do her
duty.&nbsp; She had resolved before she went to the altar that she
would never allow herself to flirt and she had never flirted.&nbsp;
For fifteen years things had gone tolerably well with her,&mdash;by which
it is intended that the reader should understand that they had so
gone that she had been able to tolerate them.&nbsp; They had been
home in England for three or four years, and then Sir Patrick had
returned with some new and higher appointment.&nbsp; For fifteen
years, though he had been passionate, imperious, and often cruel, he
had never been jealous.&nbsp; A boy and a girl had been born to them,
to whom both father and mother had been over indulgent,&mdash;but the
mother, according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her duty by
them.&nbsp; But from the commencement of her life she had been
educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the
practice of deceit necessary to her.&nbsp; Her mother had run away
from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between this and
that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any one to care
for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous, and untrustworthy
by the difficulties of her position.&nbsp; But she was clever, and
had picked up an education and good manners amidst the difficulties
of her childhood,&mdash;and had been beautiful to look at.

<p>To marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly,
to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,&mdash;and
during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful
amidst great difficulties.&nbsp; She would smile within five minutes
of violent ill-usage.&nbsp; Her husband would even strike her,&mdash;and
the first effort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from
all the world.&nbsp; In latter years he drank too much, and she
struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to
hide the ill effects of the evil.&nbsp; But in doing all this she
schemed, and lied, and lived a life of manoeuvres.&nbsp; Then, at
last, when she felt that she was no longer quite a young woman, she
allowed herself to attempt to form friendships for herself, and among
her friends was one of the other sex.&nbsp; If fidelity in a wife be
compatible with such friendship, if the married state does not exact
from a woman the necessity of debarring herself from all friendly
intercourse with any man except her lord, Lady Carbury was not
faithless.&nbsp; But Sir Carbury became jealous, spoke words which
even she could not endure, did things which drove even her beyond the
calculations of her prudence,&mdash;and she left him.&nbsp; But even this
she did in so guarded a way that, as to every step she took, she
could prove her innocence.&nbsp; Her life at that period is of little
moment to our story, except that it is essential that the reader
should know in what she had been slandered.&nbsp; For a month or two
all hard words had been said against her by her husband's friends,
and even by Sir Patrick himself.&nbsp; But gradually the truth was
known, and after a year's separation they came again together and she
remained the mistress of his house till he died.&nbsp; She brought
him home to England, but during the short period left to him of life
in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid.&nbsp; But
the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and some people
were never tired of reminding others that in the course of her
married life Lady Carbury had run away from her husband, and had been
taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.

<p>Sir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no
means great wealth.&nbsp; To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury,
he had left &pound;1,000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision
that after her death the latter sum should be divided between his son
and daughter.&nbsp; It therefore came to pass that the young man, who
had already entered the army when his father died, and upon whom
devolved no necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not
unfrequently lived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that
with which his mother and sister were obliged to maintain a roof over
their head.&nbsp; Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her
thraldom at the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her
future life amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood.&nbsp; She had
hitherto endeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her
position she was bound to take the good and the bad together.&nbsp;
She had certainly encountered hitherto much that was bad.&nbsp; To be
scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she
was at last driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage;
to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would
for the remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her
flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for
a year or two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay
for such good things as she had hitherto enjoyed.&nbsp; Now at length
had come to her a period of relaxation&mdash;her reward, her freedom, her
chance of happiness.&nbsp; She thought much about herself, and
resolved on one or two things.&nbsp; The time for love had gone by,
and she would have nothing to do with it.&nbsp; Nor would she marry
again for convenience.&nbsp; But she would have friends,&mdash;real friends;
friends who could help her,&mdash;and whom possibly she might help.&nbsp;
She would, too, make some career for herself, so that life might not
be without an interest to her.&nbsp; She would live in London, and
would become somebody at any rate in some circle.&nbsp; Accident at
first rather than choice had thrown her among literary people, but
that accident had, during the last two years, been supported and
corroborated by the desire which had fallen upon her of earning
money.&nbsp; She had known from the first that economy would be
necessary to her,&mdash;not chiefly or perhaps not at all from a feeling
that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together on a
thousand a year,&mdash;but on behalf of her son.&nbsp; She wanted no luxury
but a house so placed that people might conceive of her that she
lived in a proper part of the town.&nbsp; Of her daughter's prudence
she was as well convinced as of her own.&nbsp; She could trust
Henrietta in everything.&nbsp; But her son, Sir Felix, was not very
trustworthy.&nbsp; And yet Sir Felix was the darling of her heart.

<p>At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our
story is supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money.&nbsp;
Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment
for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once,
had altogether wasted the property which his father had left
him.&nbsp; So much the mother knew,&mdash;and knew, therefore, that with
her limited income she must maintain not only herself and daughter,
but also the baronet.&nbsp; She did not know, however, the amount of
the baronet's obligations;&mdash;nor, indeed, did he, or any one
else.&nbsp; A baronet, holding a commission in the Guards, and known
to have had a fortune left him by his father, may go very far in
getting into debt; and Sir Felix had made full use of all his
privileges.&nbsp; His life had been in every way bad.&nbsp; He had
become a burden on his mother so heavy,&mdash;and on his sister
also,&mdash;that their life had become one of unavoidable
embarrassments.&nbsp; But not for a moment, had either of them ever
quarrelled with him.&nbsp; Henrietta had been taught by the conduct
of both father and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man
and in a son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and
especially from a daughter.&nbsp; The lesson had come to her so early
in life that she had learned it without the feeling of any
grievance.&nbsp; She lamented her brother's evil conduct as it
affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it affected
herself.&nbsp; That all her interests in life should be made
subservient to him was natural to her; and when she found that her
little comforts were discontinued, and her moderate expenses
curtailed, because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now
eating up also all that was his mother's, she never complained.&nbsp;
Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank of life in
which she had been born always did eat up everything.

<p>The mother's feeling was less noble,&mdash;or perhaps, it might better
be said, more open to censure.&nbsp; The boy, who had been beautiful
as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on
which her heart had riveted itself.&nbsp; Even during the career of
his folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the
purport of stopping him on his road to ruin.&nbsp; In everything she
had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a
man.&nbsp; She was almost proud of his vices, and had taken delight
in hearing of doings which if not vicious of themselves had been
ruinous from their extravagance.&nbsp; She had so indulged him that
even in her own presence he was never ashamed of his own selfishness
or apparently conscious of the injustice which he did to others.

<p>From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literature
which had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in
the work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted into
hard work by which money if possible might be earned.&nbsp; So that
Lady Carbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her
struggles was speaking the truth.&nbsp; Tidings had reached her of
this and the other man's success, and,&mdash;coming near to her still,&mdash;of
this and that other woman's earnings in literature.&nbsp; And it had
seemed to her that, within moderate limits, she might give a wide
field to her hopes.&nbsp; Why should she not add a thousand a year to
her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry
that heiress who, in Lady Carbury's look-out into the future, was
destined to make all things straight!&nbsp; Who was so handsome as
her son?&nbsp; Who could make himself more agreeable?&nbsp; Who had
more of that audacity which is the chief thing necessary to the
winning of heiresses?

<p>And then he could make his wife Lady Carbury.&nbsp; If only enough
money might be earned to tide over the present evil day, all might be
well.

<p>The one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all
this was probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was to be
obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certain people
to say that her books were good.&nbsp; She did work hard at what she
wrote,&mdash;hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly; and was,
by nature, a clever woman.&nbsp; She could write after a glib,
commonplace, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knack of
spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast
surface.&nbsp; She had no ambition to write a good book, but was
painfully anxious to write a book that the critics should say was
good.&nbsp; Had Mr Broune, in his closet, told her that her book was
absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the same time to have it
violently praised in the "Breakfast Table", it may be doubted whether
the critic's own opinion would have even wounded her vanity.&nbsp;
The woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in
her, false though she was.

<p>Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad
training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say?&nbsp; It is
hardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken
away as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral
teachers.&nbsp; And yet again it is hardly possible that any training
or want of training should have produced a heart so utterly incapable
of feeling for others as was his.&nbsp; He could not even feel his
own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the
moment.&nbsp; It seemed that he lacked sufficient imagination to
realise future misery though the futurity to be considered was
divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,&mdash;but by
a single night.&nbsp; He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised
and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him
were his chosen friends.&nbsp; He had in this the instincts of a horse, not
approaching the higher sympathies of a dog.&nbsp; But it cannot be
said of him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying
himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf.&nbsp;
His heart was a stone.&nbsp; But he was beautiful to lock at,
ready-witted, and intelligent.&nbsp; He was very dark, with that soft
olive complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance
of aristocratic breeding.&nbsp; His hair, which was never allowed to
become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that
taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings.&nbsp;
His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the
perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow.&nbsp; But perhaps the glory of
the face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of
the nose and mouth than to his other features.&nbsp; On his short
upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he
wore no other beard.&nbsp; The form of his chin too was perfect, but
it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression, indicative of
softness of heart, which a dimple conveys.&nbsp; He was about five
feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face.&nbsp;
It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man
had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted
also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty.&nbsp; He had
given himself airs on many scores;&mdash;on the score of his money, poor
fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his
army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of
superiority in fashionable intellect.&nbsp; But he had been clever
enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the
appearance of thought about his outward man.&nbsp; As yet the little
world of his associates had hardly found out how callous were his
affections,&mdash;or rather how devoid he was of affection.&nbsp; His airs
and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him
through even the viciousness of his life.&nbsp; In one matter he had
marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character
among his friends more than he had done by the folly of three
years.&nbsp; There had been a quarrel between him and a brother
officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the moment
came in which a man's heart should have produced manly conduct, he
had first threatened and had then shown the white feather.&nbsp; That
was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the evil;&mdash;but some
men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had
cowered.

<p>It was now his business to marry an heiress.&nbsp; He was well
aware that it was so, and was quite prepared to face his
destiny.&nbsp; But he lacked something in the art of making
love.&nbsp; He was beautiful, had the manners of a gentleman, could
talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had no feeling of
repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel.&nbsp; But he
knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even a young
girl believe that he felt it.&nbsp; When he talked of love, he not
only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought
so.&nbsp; From this fault he had already failed with one young lady
reputed to have &pound;40,000, who had refused him because, as she naively
said, she knew "he did not really care."&nbsp; "How can I show that I
care more than by wishing to make you my wife?" he had asked.&nbsp;
"I don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care," she
said.&nbsp; And so that young lady escaped the pitfall.&nbsp; Now
there was another young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced
in time, whom Sir Felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting
diligence.&nbsp; Her wealth was not defined, as had been the &pound;40,000
of her predecessor, but was known to be very much greater than
that.&nbsp; It was, indeed, generally supposed to be fathomless,
bottomless, endless.&nbsp; It was said that in regard to money for
ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and
the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of this young
lady.&nbsp; He had great concerns;&mdash;concerns so great that the payment
of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing
to him,&mdash;as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it
matters little whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their
mutton chops.&nbsp; Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there
was no doubt that to anyone marrying his daughter during the present
season of his outrageous prosperity he could give a very large
fortune indeed.&nbsp; Lady Carbury, who had known the rock on which
her son had been once wrecked, was very anxious that Sir Felix should
at once make a proper use of the intimacy which he had effected in
the house of this topping Croesus of the day.

<p>And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta
Carbury.&nbsp; Of course she was of infinitely less importance than
her brother, who was a baronet, the head of that branch of the
Carburys, and her mother's darling; and, therefore, a few words
should suffice.&nbsp; She also was very lovely, being like her
brother; but somewhat less dark and with features less absolutely
regular.&nbsp; But she had in her countenance a full measure of that
sweetness of expression which seems to imply that consideration of
self is subordinated to consideration for others.&nbsp; This
sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother.&nbsp; And her face
was a true index of her character.&nbsp; Again, who shall say why the
brother and sister had become so opposite to each other; whether they
would have been thus different had both been taken away as infants
from their father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's
virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held
in her parent's heart?&nbsp; She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by
a title, by the command of money, and by the temptations of too early
acquaintance with the world.&nbsp; At the present time she was barely
twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of London society.&nbsp;
Her mother did not frequent balls, and during the last two years
there had grown upon them a necessity for economy which was inimical
to many gloves and costly dresses.&nbsp; Sir Felix went out of
course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home with her
mother in Welbeck Street.&nbsp; Occasionally the world saw her, and
when the world did see her the world declared that she was a charming
girl.&nbsp; The world was so far right.

<p>But for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already
commenced in real earnest.&nbsp; There was another branch of the
Carburys, the head branch, which was now represented by one Roger
Carbury, of Carbury Hall.&nbsp; Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom
much will have to be said, but here, at this moment, it need only be
told that he was passionately in love with his cousin
Henrietta.&nbsp; He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there
was one Paul Montague whom Henrietta had seen.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="3"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER III.&nbsp; The Beargarden</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury's house in Welbeck Street was a modest house enough,&mdash;
with no pretensions to be a mansion, hardly assuming even to be a
residence; but, having some money in her hands when she first took
it, she had made it pretty and pleasant, and was still proud to feel
that in spite of the hardness of her position she had comfortable
belongings around her when her literary friends came to see her on
her Tuesday evenings.&nbsp; Here she was now living with her son and
daughter.&nbsp; The back drawing-room was divided from the front by
doors that were permanently closed, and in this she carried on her
great work.&nbsp; Here she wrote her books and contrived her system
for the inveigling of editors and critics.&nbsp; Here she was rarely
disturbed by her daughter, and admitted no visitors except editors
and critics.&nbsp; But her son was controlled by no household laws,
and would break in upon her privacy without remorse.&nbsp; She had
hardly finished two galloping notes after completing her letter to Mr
Ferdinand Alf, when Felix entered the room with a cigar in his mouth
and threw himself upon the sofa.

<p>"My dear boy," she said, "pray leave your tobacco below when you
come in here."

<p>"What affectation it is, mother," he said, throwing, however, the
half-smoked cigar into the fire-place.&nbsp; "Some women swear they
like smoke, others say they hate it like the devil.&nbsp; It depends
altogether on whether they wish to flatter or snub a fellow."

<p>"You don't suppose that I wish to snub you?"

<p>"Upon my word I don't know.&nbsp; I wonder whether you can let me
have twenty pounds?"

<p>"My dear Felix!"

<p>"Just so, mother;&mdash;but how about the twenty pounds?"

<p>"What is it for, Felix?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;to tell the truth, to carry on the game for the nonce till
something is settled.&nbsp; A fellow can't live without some money in
his pocket.&nbsp; I do with as little as most fellows.&nbsp; I pay
for nothing that I can help.&nbsp; I even get my hair cut on credit,
and as long as it was possible I had a brougham, to save cabs."

<p>"What is to be the end of it, Felix?"

<p>"I never could see the end of anything, mother.&nbsp; I never
could nurse a horse when the hounds were going well in order to be in
at the finish.&nbsp; I never could pass a dish that I liked in favour
of those that were to follow.&nbsp; What's the use?"&nbsp; The young
man did not say "carpe diem," but that was the philosophy which he
intended to preach.

<p>"Have you been at the Melmottes' to-day?"&nbsp; It was now five
o'clock on a winter afternoon, the hour at which ladies are drinking
tea, and idle men playing whist at the clubs,&mdash;at which young idle
men are sometimes allowed to flirt, and at which, as Lady Carbury
thought, her son might have been paying his court to Marie Melmotte
the great heiress.

<p>"I have just come away."

<p>"And what do you think of her?"

<p>"To tell the truth, mother, I have thought very little about
her.&nbsp; She is not pretty, she is not plain; she is not clever,
she is not stupid; she is neither saint nor sinner."

<p>"The more likely to make a good wife."

<p>"Perhaps so.&nbsp; I am at any rate quite willing to believe that
as wife she would be 'good enough for me.'"

<p>"What does the mother say?"

<p>"The mother is a caution.&nbsp; I cannot help speculating whether,
if I marry the daughter, I shall ever find out where the mother came
from.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a
Bohemian Jewess; but I think she's too fat for that."

<p>"What does it matter, Felix?"

<p>"Not in the least"

<p>"Is she civil to you?"

<p>"Yes, civil enough."

<p>"And the father?"

<p>"Well, he does not turn me out, or anything of that sort.&nbsp; Of
course there are half-a-dozen after her, and I think the old fellow
is bewildered among them all.&nbsp; He's thinking more of getting
dukes to dine with him than of his daughter's lovers.&nbsp; Any
fellow might pick her up who happened to hit her fancy."

<p>"And why not you?"

<p>"Why not, mother?&nbsp; I am doing my best, and it's no good
flogging a willing horse.&nbsp; Can you let me have the money?"

<p>"Oh, Felix, I think you hardly know how poor we are.&nbsp; You
have still got your hunters down at the place!"

<p>"I have got two horses, if you mean that; and I haven't paid a
shilling for their keep since the season began.&nbsp; Look here,
mother; this is a risky sort of game, I grant, but I am playing it by
your advice.&nbsp; If I can marry Miss Melmotte, I suppose all will
be right.&nbsp; But I don't think the way to get her would be to
throw up everything and let all the world know that I haven't got a
copper.&nbsp; To do that kind of thing a man must live a little up to
the mark.&nbsp; I've brought my hunting down to a minimum, but if I
gave it up altogether there would be lots of fellows to tell them in
Grosvenor Square why I had done so."

<p>There was an apparent truth in this argument which the poor woman
was unable to answer.&nbsp; Before the interview was over the money
demanded was forthcoming, though at the time it could be but ill
afforded, and the youth went away apparently with a light heart,
hardly listening to his mother's entreaties that the affair with
Marie Melmotte might, if possible, be brought to a speedy conclusion.

<p>Felix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to
which he now belonged.&nbsp; Clubs are pleasant resorts in all
respects but one.&nbsp; They require ready money or even worse than
that in respect to annual payments,&mdash;money in advance; and the young
baronet had been absolutely forced to restrict himself.&nbsp; He, as
a matter of course, out of those to which he had possessed the right
of entrance, chose the worst.&nbsp; It was called the Beargarden, and
had been lately opened with the express view of combining parsimony
with profligacy.&nbsp; Clubs were ruined, so said certain young
parsimonious profligates, by providing comforts for old fogies who
paid little or nothing but their subscriptions, and took out by their
mere presence three times as much as they gave.&nbsp; This club was
not to be opened till three o'clock in the afternoon, before which
hour the promoters of the Beargarden thought it improbable that they
and their fellows would want a club.&nbsp; There were to be no
morning papers taken, no library, no morning-room.&nbsp;
Dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would suffice for the
Beargarden.&nbsp; Everything was to be provided by a purveyor, so
that the club should be cheated only by one man.&nbsp; Everything was
to be luxurious, but the luxuries were to be achieved at first
cost.&nbsp; It had been a happy thought, and the club was said to
prosper.&nbsp; Herr Vossner, the purveyor, was a jewel, and so
carried on affairs that there was no trouble about anything.&nbsp; He
would assist even in smoothing little difficulties as to the settling
of card accounts, and had behaved with the greatest tenderness to the
drawers of cheques whose bankers had harshly declared them to have
"no effects."&nbsp; Herr Vossner was a jewel, and the Beargarden was
a success.&nbsp; Perhaps no young man about town enjoyed the
Beargarden more thoroughly than did Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; The club
was in the close vicinity of other clubs, in a small street turning
out of St. James's Street, and piqued itself on its outward quietness
and sobriety.&nbsp; Why pay for stone-work for other people to look
at;&mdash;why lay out money in marble pillars and cornices, seeing that you
can neither eat such things, nor drink them, nor gamble with
them?&nbsp; But the Beargarden had the best wines&mdash;or thought that it
had&mdash;and the easiest chairs, and two billiard-tables than which
nothing more perfect had ever been made to stand upon legs.&nbsp;
Hither Sir Felix wended on that January afternoon as soon as he had
his mother's cheque for &pound;20 in his pocket.

<p>He found his special friend, Dolly Longestaffe, standing on the
steps with a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the dull
brick house opposite.&nbsp; "Going to dine here, Dolly?" said Sir
Felix.

<p>"I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go
anywhere else.&nbsp; I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to
getting home and dressing.&nbsp; By George!&nbsp; I don't know how
fellows do that kind of thing.&nbsp; I can't."

<p>"Going to hunt to-morrow?"

<p>"Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall.&nbsp; I was going to hunt
every day last week, but my fellow never would get me up in
time.&nbsp; I can't tell why it is that things are done in such a
beastly way.&nbsp; Why shouldn't fellows begin to hunt at two or
three, so that a fellow needn't get up in the middle of the night?"

<p>"Because one can't ride by moonlight, Dolly."

<p>"It isn't moonlight at three.&nbsp; At any rate I can't get myself
to Euston Square by nine.&nbsp; I don't think that fellow of mine
likes getting up himself.&nbsp; He says he comes in and wakes me, but
I never remember it."

<p>"How many horses have you got at Leighton, Dolly?"

<p>"How many?&nbsp; There were five, but I think that fellow down
there sold one; but then I think he bought another.&nbsp; I know he
did something."

<p>"Who rides them?"

<p>"He does, I suppose.&nbsp; That is, of course, I ride them myself,
only I so seldom get down.&nbsp; Somebody told me that Grasslough was
riding two of them last week.&nbsp; I don't think I ever told him he
might.&nbsp; I think he tipped that fellow of mine; and I call that a
low kind of thing to do.&nbsp; I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that
I had lent them.&nbsp; Perhaps I did when I was tight, you know."

<p>"You and Grasslough were never pals."

<p>"I don't like him a bit.&nbsp; He gives himself airs because he is
a lord, and is devilish ill-natured.&nbsp; I don't know why he should
want to ride my horses."

<p>"To save his own."

<p>"He isn't hard up.&nbsp; Why doesn't he have his own horses?&nbsp;
I'll tell you what, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and,
by Jove, I'll stick to it.&nbsp; I never will lend a horse again to
anybody.&nbsp; If fellows want horses let them buy them."

<p>"But some fellows haven't got any money, Dolly."

<p>"Then they ought to go tick.&nbsp; I don't think I've paid for any
of mine I've bought this season.&nbsp; There was somebody here
yesterday&mdash;"

<p>"What! here at the club?"

<p>"Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for
something!&nbsp; It was horses, I think because of the fellow's
trousers."

<p>"What did you say?"

<p>"Me!&nbsp; Oh, I didn't say anything."

<p>"And how did it end?"

<p>"When he'd done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was
biting off the end went upstairs.&nbsp; I suppose he went away when
he was tired of waiting."

<p>"I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours
for a couple of days,&mdash;that is, of course, if you don't want them
yourself.&nbsp; You ain't tight now, at any rate."

<p>"No; I ain't tight," said Dolly, with melancholy acquiescence.

<p>"I mean that I wouldn't like to borrow your horses without your
remembering all about it.&nbsp; Nobody knows as well as you do how
awfully done up I am.&nbsp; I shall pull through at last, but it's an
awful squeeze in the meantime.&nbsp; There's nobody I'd ask such a
favour of except you."

<p>"Well, you may have them;&mdash;that is, for two days.&nbsp; I don't
know whether that fellow of mine will believe you.&nbsp; He wouldn't
believe Grasslough, and told him so.&nbsp; But Grasslough took them
out of the stables.&nbsp; That's what somebody told me."

<p>"You could write a line to your groom."

<p>"Oh my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could do
that.&nbsp; My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been
pals.&nbsp; I think I'll have a little drop of curacoa before
dinner.&nbsp; Come along and try it.&nbsp; It'll give us an
appetite."

<p>It was then nearly seven o'clock.&nbsp; Nine hours afterwards the
same two men, with two others&mdash;of whom young Lord Grasslough, Dolly
Longestaffe's peculiar aversion, was one&mdash;were just rising from a
card-table in one of the upstairs rooms of the club.&nbsp; For it was
understood that, though the Beargarden was not to be open before
three o'clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during the
day was to be given freely during the night.&nbsp; No man could get a
breakfast at the Beargarden, but suppers at three o'clock in the
morning were quite within the rule.&nbsp; Such a supper, or rather
succession of suppering, there had been to-night, various devils and
broils and hot toasts having been brought up from time to time first
for one and then for another.&nbsp; But there had been no cessation
of gambling since the cards had first been opened about ten
o'clock.&nbsp; At four in the morning Dolly Longestaffe was certainly
in a condition to lend his horses and to remember nothing about
it.&nbsp; He was quite affectionate with Lord Grasslough, as he was
also with his other companions,&mdash;affection being the normal state of
his mind when in that condition.&nbsp; He was by no means helplessly
drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober;
but he was willing to play at any game whether he understood it or
not, and for any stakes.&nbsp; When Sir Felix got up and said he
would play no more, Dolly also got up, apparently quite
contented.&nbsp; When Lord Grasslough, with a dark scowl on his face,
expressed his opinion that it was not just the thing for men to break
up like that when so much money had been lost, Dolly as willingly sat
down again.&nbsp; But Dolly's sitting down was not sufficient.&nbsp;
"I'm going to hunt to-morrow," said Sir Felix&mdash;meaning that day,&mdash;"and
I shall play no more.&nbsp; A man must go to bed at some time."

<p>"I don't see it at all," said Lord Grasslough.&nbsp; "It's an
understood thing that when a man has won as much as you have he
should stay."

<p>"Stay how long?" said Sir Felix, with an angry look.&nbsp; "That's
nonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of
this for me to-night."

<p>"Oh, if you choose," said his lordship.

<p>"I do choose.&nbsp; Good night, Dolly; we'll settle this next time
we meet.&nbsp; I've got it all entered."

<p>The night had been one very serious in its results to Sir
Felix.&nbsp; He had sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of
his mother's cheque, a poor &pound;20, and now he had,&mdash;he didn't at all
know how much in his pockets.&nbsp; He also had drunk, but not so as
to obscure his mind.&nbsp; He knew that Longestaffe owed him over
&pound;300, and he knew also that he had received more than that in ready
money and cheques from Lord Grasslough and the other player.&nbsp;
Dolly Longestaffe's money, too, would certainly be paid, though Dolly
did complain of the importunity of his tradesmen.&nbsp; As he walked
up St. James's Street, looking for a cab, he presumed himself to be
worth over &pound;700.&nbsp; When begging for a small sum from Lady
Carbury, he had said that he could not carry on the game without some
ready money, and had considered himself fortunate in fleecing his
mother as he had done.&nbsp; Now he was in the possession of
wealth,&mdash;of wealth that might, at any rate, be sufficient to aid him
materially in the object he had in hand.&nbsp; He never for a moment
thought of paying his bills.&nbsp; Even the large sum of which he had
become so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far with him in
such a quixotic object as that; but he could now look bright, and buy
presents, and be seen with money in his hands.&nbsp; It is hard even
to make love in these days without something in your purse.

<p>He found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent
to the trouble of walking home.&nbsp; There was something so joyous
in the feeling of the possession of all this money that it made the
night air pleasant to him.&nbsp; Then, of a sudden, he remembered the
low wail with which his mother had spoken of her poverty when he
demanded assistance from her.&nbsp; Now he could give her back the
&pound;20.&nbsp; But it occurred to him sharply, with an amount of
carefulness quite new to him, that it would be foolish to do
so.&nbsp; How soon might he want it again?&nbsp; And, moreover, he
could not repay the money without explaining to her how he had gotten
it.&nbsp; It would be preferable to say nothing about his
money.&nbsp; As he let himself into the house and went up to his room
he resolved that he would not say anything about it.

<p>On that morning he was at the station at nine, and hunted down in
Buckinghamshire, riding two of Dolly Longestaffe's horses for the use
of which he paid Dolly Longestaffe's "fellow" thirty shilling.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="4"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER IV.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte's Ball</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at
the Beargarden, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; It
was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about
ever since Parliament met, now about a fortnight since.&nbsp; Some
people had expressed an opinion that such a ball as this was intended
to be could not be given successfully in February.&nbsp; Others
declared that the money which was to be spent,&mdash;an amount which would
make this affair quite new in the annals of ball-giving,&mdash;would give
the thing such a character that it would certainly be
successful.&nbsp; And much more than money had been expended.&nbsp;
Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the cooperation of
great people, and these efforts had at last been grandly
successful.&nbsp; The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from Castle
Albury herself to be present at it and to bring her daughters, though
it has never been her Grace's wont to be in London at this inclement
season.&nbsp; No doubt the persuasion used with the Duchess had been
very strong.&nbsp; Her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be
in great difficulties, which,&mdash;so people said,&mdash;had been considerably
modified by opportune pecuniary assistance.&nbsp; And then it was
certain that one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son,
had been appointed to some mercantile position, for which he received
a salary which his most intimate friends thought that he was hardly
qualified to earn.&nbsp; It was certainly a fact that he went to
Abchurch Lane, in the City, four or five days a week, and that he did
not occupy his time in so unaccustomed a manner for nothing.&nbsp;
Where the Duchess of Stevenage went all the world would go.&nbsp; And
it became known at the last moment, that is to say only the day
before the party, that a prince of the blood royal was to be
there.&nbsp; How this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but
there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from
the pawnbroker's.&nbsp; Everything was done on the same scale.&nbsp;
The Prime Minister had indeed declined to allow his name to appear on
the list; but one Cabinet Minister and two or three under-secretaries
had agreed to come because it was felt that the giver of the ball
might before long be the master of considerable parliamentary
interest.&nbsp; It was believed that he had an eye to politics, and
it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side.&nbsp; There
had at one time been much solicitude about the ball.&nbsp; Many
anxious thoughts had been given.&nbsp; When great attempts fail, the
failure is disastrous, and may be ruinous.&nbsp; But this ball had
now been put beyond the chance of failure.

<p>The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, Esq., the father of
the girl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of
the lady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess.&nbsp; It was
thus that the gentleman chose to have himself designated, though
within the last two years he had arrived in London from Paris, and
had at first been known as M. Melmotte.&nbsp; But he had declared of
himself that he had been born in England, and that he was an
Englishman.&nbsp; He admitted that his wife was a foreigner,&mdash;an
admission that was necessary as she spoke very little English.&nbsp;
Melmotte himself spoke his "native" language fluently, but with an
accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation.&nbsp; Miss
Melmotte,&mdash;who a very short time since had been known as Mademoiselle
Marie,&mdash;spoke English well, but as a foreigner.&nbsp; In regard to her
it was acknowledged that she had been born out of England,&mdash;some said
in New York; but Madame Melmotte, who must have known, had declared
that the great event had taken place in Paris.

<p>It was at any rate an established fact that Mr Melmotte had made
his wealth in France.&nbsp; He no doubt had had enormous dealings in
other countries, as to which stories were told which must surely have
been exaggerated.&nbsp; It was said that he had made a railway across
Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil
war, that he had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time
bought up all the iron in England.&nbsp; He could make or mar any
company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap
as he pleased.&nbsp; All this was said of him in his praise,&mdash;but
it was also said that he was regarded in Paris as the most gigantic
swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that City too hot to
hold him; that he had endeavoured to establish himself in Vienna, but
had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found
that British freedom would alone allow him to enjoy, without
persecution, the fruits of his industry.&nbsp; He was now established
privately in Grosvenor Square and officially in Abchurch Lane; and it
was known to all the world that a Royal Prince, a Cabinet Minister,
and the very cream of duchesses were going to his wife's ball.&nbsp;
All this had been done within twelve months.

<p>There was but one child in the family, one heiress for all this
wealth.&nbsp; Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers
and rough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of
power about his mouth and chin.&nbsp; This was so strong as to redeem
his face from vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the
man were on the whole unpleasant, and, I may say,
untrustworthy.&nbsp; He looked as though he were purse-proud and a
bully.&nbsp; She was fat and fair,&mdash;unlike in colour to our traditional
Jewesses; but she had the Jewish nose and the Jewish contraction of
the eyes.&nbsp; There was certainly very little in Madame Melmotte to
recommend her, unless it was a readiness to spend money on any object
that might be suggested to her by her new acquaintances.&nbsp; It
sometimes seemed that she had a commission from her husband to give
away presents to any who would accept them.&nbsp; The world had
received the man as Augustus Melmotte, Esq. The world so addressed
him on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so inscribed
him among the directors of three dozen companies to which he
belonged.&nbsp; But his wife was still Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; The
daughter had been allowed to take her rank with an English
title.&nbsp; She was now Miss Melmotte on all occasions.

<p>Marie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to
his mother.&nbsp; She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she
was not a saint.&nbsp; But then neither was she plain, nor stupid,
nor, especially, a sinner.&nbsp; She was a little thing, hardly over
twenty years of age, very unlike her father or mother, having no
trace of the Jewess in her countenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed
by the sense of her own position.&nbsp; With such people as the
Melmottes things go fast, and it was very well known that Miss
Melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly
accepted.&nbsp; The affair, however, had gone off.&nbsp; In this
"going off" no one imputed to the young lady blame or even
misfortune.&nbsp; It was not supposed that she had either jilted or
been jilted.&nbsp; As in royal espousals interests of State regulate
their expedience with an acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed
impossibility, of personal predilections, so in this case was money
allowed to have the same weight.&nbsp; Such a marriage would or would
not be sanctioned in accordance with great pecuniary
arrangements.&nbsp; The young Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the
Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered to take the girl and make her
Marchioness in the process of time for half a million down.&nbsp;
Melmotte had not objected to the sum,&mdash;so it was said,&mdash;but had
proposed to tie it up.&nbsp; Nidderdale had desired to have it free
in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms.&nbsp;
Melmotte had been anxious to secure the Marquis,&mdash;very anxious to
secure the Marchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with
the Duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked his
lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such a
sum of money to such a man.&nbsp; "You are willing to trust your only
child to him," said the lawyer.&nbsp; Melmotte scowled at the man for
a few seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his
answer had nothing in it, and marched out of the room.&nbsp; So that
affair was over.&nbsp; I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said
a word of love to Marie Melmotte,&mdash;or whether the poor girl had
expected it.&nbsp; Her destiny had no doubt been explained to her.

<p>Others had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same
fashion.&nbsp; Each had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to
undertake,&mdash;at a very great price.&nbsp; But as affairs prospered
with the Melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained by other
means,&mdash;costly no doubt, but not so ruinously costly,&mdash;the immediate
disposition of Marie became less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his
offers.&nbsp; The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion.&nbsp;
It was said that she had absolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, whose
father indeed was in a state of bankruptcy, who had no income of his
own, who was ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of
recommending himself to a girl.&nbsp; She had had experience since
Lord Nidderdale, with a half laugh, had told her that he might just
as well take her for his wife, and was now tempted from time to time
to contemplate her own happiness and her own condition.&nbsp; People
around were beginning to say that if Sir Felix Carbury managed his
affairs well he might be the happy man.

<p>There was a considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of
that Jewish-looking woman.&nbsp; Enquiries had been made, but not
successfully, as to the date of the Melmotte marriage.&nbsp; There
was an idea abroad that Melmotte had got his first money with his
wife, and had gotten it not very long ago.&nbsp; Then other people
said that Marie was not his daughter at all.&nbsp; Altogether the
mystery was rather pleasant as the money was certain.&nbsp; Of the
certainty of the money in daily use there could be no doubt.&nbsp;
There was the house.&nbsp; There was the furniture.&nbsp; There were
the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and
powdered heads, and the servants with the black coats and unpowdered
heads.&nbsp; There were the gems, and the presents, and all the nice
things that money can buy.&nbsp; There were two dinner parties every
day, one at two o'clock called lunch, and the other at eight.&nbsp;
The tradesmen had learned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in
the City Mr Melmotte's name was worth any money,&mdash;though his character
was perhaps worth but little.

<p>The large house on the south side of Grosvenor Square was all
ablaze by ten o'clock.&nbsp; The broad verandah had been turned into
a conservatory, had been covered with boards contrived to look like
trellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at some
fabulous price.&nbsp; A covered way had been made from the door, down
across the pathway, to the road, and the police had, I fear, been
bribed to frighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound
to go round.&nbsp; The house had been so arranged that it was
impossible to know where you were, when once in it.&nbsp; The hall
was a paradise.&nbsp; The staircase was fairyland.&nbsp; The lobbies
were grottoes rich with ferns.&nbsp; Walls had been knocked away and
arches had been constructed.&nbsp; The leads behind had been
supported and walled in, and covered and carpeted.&nbsp; The ball had
possession of the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed
to be endless.&nbsp; "It's to cost sixty thousand pounds," said the
Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess of
Mid-Lothian.&nbsp; The Marchioness had come in spite of her son's
misfortune when she heard that the Duchess of Stevenage was to be
there.&nbsp; "And worse spent money never was wasted," said the
Countess.&nbsp; "By all accounts it was as badly come by," said the
Marchioness.&nbsp; Then the two old noblewomen, one after the other,
made graciously flattering speeches to the much-worn Bohemian Jewess,
who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting
under the greatness of the occasion.

<p>The three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been
prepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed.&nbsp; The Duchess
had however undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing
going, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young
gentleman who now frequented the City, to give directions to the band
and to make himself generally useful.&nbsp; Indeed, there had sprung
up a considerable intimacy between the Grendall family,&mdash;that is Lord
Alfred's branch of the Grendalls,&mdash;and the Melmottes; which was as it
should be, as each could give much and each receive much.&nbsp; It
was known that Lord Alfred had not a shilling; but his brother was a
duke and his sister was a duchess, and for the last thirty years
there had been one continual anxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had
tumbled into an unfortunate marriage without a shilling, had spent
his own moderate patrimony, had three sons and three daughters, and
had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling
contributions of his noble relatives.&nbsp; Melmotte could support
the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden;&mdash;and why
should he not?&nbsp; There had once been an idea that Miles should
attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been found expedient to
abandon it.&nbsp; Miles had no title, no position of his own, and was
hardly big enough for the place.&nbsp; It was in all respects better
that the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildly
the whole Grendall family;&mdash;and so Miles went into the city.

<p>The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the
eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie.&nbsp; Various
arrangements had been made, and this among them.&nbsp; We may say
that it had been a part of the bargain.&nbsp; Lord Buntingford had
objected mildly, being a young man devoted to business, fond of his
own order, rather shy, and not given to dancing.&nbsp; But he had
allowed his mother to prevail.&nbsp; "Of course they are vulgar," the
Duchess had said,&mdash;"so much so as to be no longer distasteful because
of the absurdity of the thing.&nbsp; I dare say he hasn't been very
honest.&nbsp; When men make so much money, I don't know how they can
have been honest.&nbsp; Of course it's done for a purpose.&nbsp; It's
all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about
Alfred's children?&nbsp; Miles is to have &pound;500 a-year.&nbsp; And then
he is always about the house.&nbsp; And between you and me they have
got up those bills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their
safe till it suits your uncle to pay them."

<p>"They will lie there a long time," said Lord Buntingford.

<p>"Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl
once."&nbsp; Lord Buntingford disapproved mildly, and did as his
mother asked him.

<p>The affair went off very well.&nbsp; There were three or four
card-tables in one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord
Alfred Grendall and Mr Melmotte, with two or three other players,
cutting in and out at the end of each rubber.&nbsp; Playing whist was
Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of
his life.&nbsp; He began it daily at his club at three o'clock, and
continued playing till two in the morning with an interval of a
couple of hours for his dinner.&nbsp; This he did during ten months
of the year, and during the other two he frequented some
watering-place at which whist prevailed.&nbsp; He did not gamble,
never playing for more than the club stakes and bets.&nbsp; He gave
to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who were
generally opposed to him.&nbsp; But so obdurate was fortune to Lord
Alfred that he could not make money even of whist.&nbsp; Melmotte was
very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club,&mdash;The Peripatetics.&nbsp;
It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and
the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred.&nbsp;
Lord Alfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to
kick him.&nbsp; Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was
also the younger, Lord Alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick
him.&nbsp; Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid
uselessness, had still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes
thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it.&nbsp; But
there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe.&nbsp;
And then Melmotte lost his points so regularly, and paid his bets
with such absolute good humour!&nbsp; "Come and have a glass of
champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said, as the two cut out together.&nbsp;
Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went he
almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the
man.

<p>Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix
Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was then standing by talking to one Mr
Paul Montague.&nbsp; Lady Carbury was also there.&nbsp; She was not
well inclined either to balls or to such people as the Melmottes; nor
was Henrietta.&nbsp; But Felix had suggested that, bearing in mind
his prospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the
invitation which he would cause to have sent to them.&nbsp; They did
so; and then Paul Montague also got a card, not altogether to Lady
Carbury's satisfaction.&nbsp; Lady Carbury was very gracious to
Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting
nothing but misery for the evening.&nbsp; She, however, was a woman
who could do her duty and endure without complaint.

<p>"It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta
Carbury to Paul Montague.

<p>"And how do you like it?"

<p>"Not at all.&nbsp; How should I like it?&nbsp; I know nobody
here.&nbsp; I don't understand how it is that at these parties people
do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without
knowing."

<p>"Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced
backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as
they like.&nbsp; If you would wish to dance why don't you dance with
me?"

<p>"I have danced with you,&mdash;twice already."

<p>"Is there any law against dancing three times?"

<p>"But I don't especially want to dance," said Henrietta.&nbsp; "I
think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to
her."&nbsp; Just at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in
that wretched condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her
relief.

<p>Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round
throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the
music and the movement.&nbsp; To give Felix Carbury what little
praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack
physical activity.&nbsp; He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly,
with an animation that made him happy for the moment.&nbsp; It was an
affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical
organisation.&nbsp; And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly
happy.&nbsp; She loved dancing with all her heart if she could only
dance in a manner pleasant to herself.

<p>She had been warned especially as to some men,&mdash;that she should not
dance with them.&nbsp; She had been almost thrown into Lord
Nidderdale's arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's
bidding.&nbsp; But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his
society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet
recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of
which she herself should have a voice.&nbsp; She certainly had never
cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; Lord Grasslough she had
absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say
so.&nbsp; One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different
ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her
way.&nbsp; There was no one at the present moment whom she had been
commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made.&nbsp; But
she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; It was not only
that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the
expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied
altogether his real disposition.&nbsp; He could seem to be hearty and
true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his
heart,&mdash;or to try to expose it.&nbsp; Then he failed, knowing nothing
about it.&nbsp; But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could
be very successful.&nbsp; He had already nearly got beyond this with
Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his
deficiencies.&nbsp; To her he had seemed like a god.&nbsp; If she
might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give
herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.

<p>"How well you dance," said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for
speaking.

<p>"Do I?"&nbsp; She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave
a little prettiness to her speech.&nbsp; "I was never told so.&nbsp;
But nobody ever told me anything about myself."

<p>"I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the
beginning to the end."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;but you don't know."

<p>"I would find out.&nbsp; I think I could make some good
guesses.&nbsp; I'll tell you what you would like best in all the
world."

<p>"What is that?"

<p>"Somebody that liked you best in all the world."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;yes; if one knew who?"

<p>"How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?"

<p>"That is not the way to know.&nbsp; If a girl told me that she
liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just
because she said so.&nbsp; I should have to find it out."

<p>"And if a gentleman told you so?"

<p>"I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find
out.&nbsp; But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I
could love, oh, ten times better than myself."

<p>"So should I."

<p>"Have you no particular friend?"

<p>"I mean a girl whom I could love,&mdash;oh, ten times better than
myself."

<p>"Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte.

<p>"I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague
to Miss Carbury.&nbsp; They had come back into the drawing-room, and
had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet
was opening.

<p>"You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte.&nbsp; I hate to think of such
things, Mr Montague."

<p>"It would be a magnificent chance for him."

<p>"To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she
will have a great deal of money?&nbsp; He can't care for her
really,&mdash;because she is rich."

<p>"But he wants money so dreadfully!&nbsp; It seems to me that there
is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world,
but by being the husband of an heiress."

<p>"What a dreadful thing to say!"

<p>"But isn't it true?&nbsp; He has beggared himself."

<p>"Oh, Mr Montague."

<p>"And he will beggar you and your mother."

<p>"I don't care about myself."

<p>"Others do though."&nbsp; As he said this he did not look at her,
but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself
and her.

<p>"I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix."

<p>"I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury.&nbsp; I haven't said
that it was his own fault.&nbsp; He seems to be one of those who have
been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money
to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry
her.&nbsp; If Felix had &pound;20,000 a year, everybody would think him the
finest fellow in the world."&nbsp; In saying this, however, Mr Paul
Montague showed himself unfit to gauge the opinion of the
world.&nbsp; Whether Sir Felix be rich or poor, the world,
evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine fellow.

<p>Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in
uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the
appearance of Mr Ferdinand Alf.&nbsp; "You here?" she said.

<p>"Why not?&nbsp; Melmotte and I are brother adventurers."

<p>"I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you."

<p>"I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their
daughters without number.&nbsp; They expect Prince George!"

<p>"Do they?"

<p>"And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already.&nbsp; I
spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five
minutes since.&nbsp; It's quite a success.&nbsp; Don't you think it
very nice, Lady Carbury?"

<p>"I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest."

<p>"I never joke.&nbsp; I say it is very nice.&nbsp; These people are
spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others,
and all they want in return is a little countenance."

<p>"Do you mean to give it then?"

<p>"I am giving it them."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.'&nbsp; Do you
mean to give them that?"

<p>"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names
and to record ladies' dresses.&nbsp; Perhaps it may be better for our
host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers."

<p>"Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr Alf?" said the
lady after a pause.

<p>"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; Here's the
Prince.&nbsp; What will they do with him now they've caught
him!&nbsp; Oh, they're going to make him dance with the
heiress.&nbsp; Poor heiress!"

<p>"Poor Prince!" said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Not at all.&nbsp; She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have
nothing to trouble him.&nbsp; But how is she, poor thing, to talk to
royal blood?"

<p>Poor thing indeed!&nbsp; The Prince was brought into the big room
where Marie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at
once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with
royalty.&nbsp; The introduction was managed in a very business-like
manner.&nbsp; Miles Grendall first came in and found the female
victim; the Duchess followed with the male victim.&nbsp; Madame
Melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink,
waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the
affair.&nbsp; The band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at
once, to the great confusion of the dancers.&nbsp; In two minutes
Miles Grendall had made up a set.&nbsp; He stood up with his aunt,
the Duchess, as vis-&agrave;-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about
the middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take
his place.&nbsp; Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were
still present two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly
caught.&nbsp; Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a
name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with
the other.&nbsp; There were four other couples, all made up of titled
people, as it was intended that this special dance should be
chronicled, if not in the "Evening Pulpit," in some less serious
daily journal.&nbsp; A paid reporter was present in the house ready
to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized
fact.&nbsp; The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was
there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it
for the present moment.&nbsp; He himself probably knew nothing about
the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable
subscription to St. George's Hospital which had been extracted from
Mr Melmotte as a make-weight.&nbsp; Poor Marie felt as though the
burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked
as though she would have fled had flight been possible.&nbsp; But the
trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe.&nbsp; The Prince
said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a
reply.&nbsp; He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained
in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who
were for the moment inflicted with it.&nbsp; When the dance was over
he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of
champagne drunk in the presence of the hostess.&nbsp; Considerable
skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret
from the host himself till the Prince was gone.&nbsp; Melmotte would
have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to
solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, and would probably have been
troublesome and disagreeable.&nbsp; Miles Grendall had understood all
this and had managed the affair very well.&nbsp; "Bless my soul;&mdash;his
Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte.&nbsp; "You and my
father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you
away," said Miles.&nbsp; Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it
all;&mdash;understood not only that it had been thought better that he
should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that
it should be so.&nbsp; He could not have everything at once.&nbsp;
Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with
Miles, at any rate as yet.

<p>"Have another rubber, Alfred?" he said to Miles's father as the
carriages were taking away the guests.

<p>Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a
moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his
boys were receiving.&nbsp; "Damn that kind of nonsense," he
said.&nbsp; "Call people by their proper names."&nbsp; Then he left
the house without a further word to the master of it.&nbsp; That
night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife
an account of the ball, and especially of Marie's conduct.&nbsp;
"Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "had behaved well, but had certainly
preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men."&nbsp;
Hitherto Mr Melmotte had heard very little of Sir Carbury, except
that he was a baronet.&nbsp; Though his eyes and ears were always
open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp
intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and
sequence of English titles.&nbsp; He knew that he must get for his
daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession
himself.&nbsp; Sir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but
then he was in possession.&nbsp; He had discovered also that Sir
Felix's son would in course of time also become Sir Felix.&nbsp; He
was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive
orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet.&nbsp; He
did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet
addressed his girl in such words as Felix had in truth used when they
parted.&nbsp; "You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better
than any one else in the world."

<p>"Nobody does;&mdash;don't, Sir Felix."

<p>"I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute.&nbsp; He looked
into her face and she thought it very sweet.&nbsp; He had studied the
words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly
well.&nbsp; He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl
to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her
whom she could love.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="5"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER V.&nbsp; After the Ball</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"It's weary work," said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with
his mother and sister.

<p>"What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?" said
his mother.

<p>"It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary
work.&nbsp; By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club
before I go home."&nbsp; So saying he put his head out of the
brougham, and stopped the driver.

<p>"It is two o'clock, Felix," said his mother.

<p>"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry.&nbsp; You had supper,
perhaps; I had none."

<p>"Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the
morning?"

<p>"I must go to bed hungry if I don't.&nbsp; Good night."&nbsp; Then
he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven
to the Beargarden.&nbsp; He declared to himself that the men there
would think it mean of him if he did not give them their
revenge.&nbsp; He had renewed his play on the preceding night, and
had again won.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe owed him now a considerable
sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also in his debt.&nbsp; He was
sure that Grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was
determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be
carried home by his mother and sister.&nbsp; So he argued with
himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom;
and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and
that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not
keep himself from the card-table.

<p>Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and
had got upstairs.&nbsp; Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was
nearest to her heart at the moment.&nbsp; "Do you think he gambles?"

<p>"He has got no money, mamma."

<p>"I fear that might not hinder him.&nbsp; And he has money with
him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not
much.&nbsp; If he gambles everything is lost."

<p>"I suppose they all do play more or less."

<p>"I have not known that he played.&nbsp; I am wearied too, out of
all heart, by his want of consideration to me.&nbsp; It is not that
he will not obey me.&nbsp; A mother perhaps should not expect
obedience from a grown-up son.&nbsp; But my word is nothing to
him.&nbsp; He has no respect for me.&nbsp; He would as soon do what
is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."

<p>"He has been so long his own master, mamma."

<p>"Yes,&mdash;his own master!&nbsp; And yet I must provide for him as
though he were but a child.&nbsp; Hetta, you spent the whole evening
talking to Paul Montague."

<p>"No, mamma that is unjust."

<p>"He was always with you."

<p>"I knew nobody else.&nbsp; I could not tell him not to speak to
me.&nbsp; I danced with him twice."&nbsp; Her mother was seated, with
both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head.&nbsp; "If you
did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there."

<p>"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him.&nbsp; You know what
I want."&nbsp; Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good
night.&nbsp; "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London," she
said, sobbing hysterically.

<p>"Is it my fault, mamma?"

<p>"You could save me from much if you would.&nbsp; I work like a
horse, and I never spend a shilling that I can help.&nbsp; I want
nothing for myself,&mdash;nothing for myself.&nbsp; Nobody has suffered as
I have.&nbsp; But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."

<p>"I think of you, mamma."

<p>"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer.&nbsp; What right
have you to refuse him?&nbsp; I believe it is all because of that
young man."

<p>"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man.&nbsp; I like my
cousin very much;&mdash;but that is all.&nbsp; Good night, mamma."&nbsp;
Lady Carbury just allowed herself to be kissed, and then was left
alone.

<p>At eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men
who had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden.&nbsp; The
Beargarden was so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever
as to its being closed,&mdash;the only law being that it should not be
opened before three in the afternoon.&nbsp; A sort of sanction had,
however, been given to the servants to demur to producing supper or
drinks after six in the morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved
tobacco began to be too heavy even for juvenile constitutions.&nbsp;
The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles
Grendall, and Felix Carbury, and the four had amused themselves
during the last six hours with various innocent games.&nbsp; They had
commenced with whist, and had culminated during the last half-hour
with blind hookey.&nbsp; But during the whole night Felix had
won.&nbsp; Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been an expressed
opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would be both
profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of the
last two nights.&nbsp; The two men had played with the same object,
and being young had shown their intention,&mdash;so that a certain feeling
of hostility had been engendered.&nbsp; The reader is not to
understand that either of them had cheated, or that the baronet had
entertained any suspicion of foul play.&nbsp; But Felix had felt that
Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on
Dolly for sympathy and friendship.&nbsp; Dolly, however, was very
tipsy.

<p>At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling,
though no money then passed.&nbsp; The ready-money transactions had
not lasted long through the night.&nbsp; Grasslough was the chief
loser, and the figures and scraps of paper which had been passed over
to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly &pound;2,000.&nbsp; His
lordship contested the fact bitterly, but contested it in vain.&nbsp;
There were his own initials and his own figures, and even Miles
Grendall, who was supposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce
the amount.&nbsp; Then Grendall had lost over &pound;400 to Carbury,&mdash;an
amount, indeed, that mattered little, as Miles could, at present, as
easily have raised &pound;40,000.&nbsp; However, he gave his I.O.U. to his
opponent with an easy air.&nbsp; Grasslough, also, was impecunious;
but he had a father,&mdash;also impecunious, indeed; but with them the
matter would not be hopeless.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe was so tipsy
that he could not even assist in making up his own account.&nbsp;
That was to be left between him and Carbury for some future occasion.

<p>"I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,&mdash;that is to-night," said Miles.

"Certainly,&mdash;only one thing," answered Felix.

<p>"What one thing?"

<p>"I think these things should be squared before we play any more!"

<p>"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily.&nbsp; "Do you
mean to hint anything?"

<p>"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix.&nbsp; "I believe
when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's
all.&nbsp; But I'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you.&nbsp;
I'll give you your revenge to-night."

<p>"That's all right," said Miles.

<p>"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix.&nbsp; "He is an
old friend, and we know each other.&nbsp; You have been rather rough
to-night, Mr Grendall."

<p>"Rough;&mdash;what the devil do you mean by that?"

<p>"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled
before we begin again."

<p>"A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to," said
Grendall.

<p>There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on
good terms.&nbsp; Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated
that if he could realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again
with horses, servants, and all luxuries as before.&nbsp; If all were
paid, he would have over &pound;3,000!
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="6"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER VI.&nbsp; Roger Carbury and Paul Montague</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall, the owner of a small property in
Suffolk, was the head of the Carbury family.&nbsp; The Carburys had
been in Suffolk a great many years,&mdash;certainly from the time of the
War of the Roses,&mdash;and had always held up their heads.&nbsp; But they
had never held them very high.&nbsp; It was not known that any had
risen ever to the honour of knighthood before Sir Patrick, going
higher than that, had been made a baronet.&nbsp; They had, however,
been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the
perils of civil wars, Reformation, Commonwealth, and Revolution, and
the head Carbury of the day had always owned, and had always lived
at, Carbury Hall.&nbsp; At the beginning of the present century the
squire of Carbury had been a considerable man, if not in his county,
at any rate in his part of the county.&nbsp; The income of the estate
had sufficed to enable him to live plenteously and hospitably, to
drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering
coach for his wife's use when she went avisiting.&nbsp; He had an old
butler who had never lived anywhere else, and a boy from the village
who was in a way apprenticed to the butler.&nbsp; There was a cook,
not too proud to wash up her own dishes, and a couple of young
women;&mdash;while the house was kept by Mrs Carbury herself, who marked
and gave out her own linen, made her own preserves, and looked to the
curing of her own hams.&nbsp; In the year 1800 the Carbury property
was sufficient for the Carbury house.&nbsp; Since that time the
Carbury property has considerably increased in value, and the rents
have been raised.&nbsp; Even the acreage has been extended by the
enclosure of commons.&nbsp; But the income is no longer comfortably
adequate to the wants of an English gentleman's household.&nbsp; If a
moderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the
question whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to
him wherewith to keep up the estate.&nbsp; Land is a luxury, and of
all luxuries is the most costly.&nbsp; Now the Carburys never had
anything but land.&nbsp; Suffolk has not been made rich and great
either by coal or iron.&nbsp; No great town had sprung up on the
confines of the Carbury property.&nbsp; No eldest son had gone into
trade or risen high in a profession so as to add to the Carbury
wealth.&nbsp; No great heiress had been married.&nbsp; There had been
no ruin,&mdash;no misfortune.&nbsp; But in the days of which we write the
Squire of Carbury Hall had become a poor man simply through the
wealth of others.&nbsp; His estate was supposed to bring him in
&pound;2,000 a year.&nbsp; Had he been content to let the Manor House, to
live abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants,
he would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously.&nbsp; But
he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the Carburys
before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich
neighbours.&nbsp; The Longestaffes of Caversham,&mdash;of which family
Dolly Longestaffe was the eldest son and hope,&mdash;had the name of great
wealth, but the founder of the family had been a Lord Mayor of London
and a chandler as lately as in the reign of Queen Anne.&nbsp; The
Hepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had
married into new money.&nbsp; The Primeros,&mdash;though the goodnature of
the country folk had accorded to the head of them the title of Squire
Primero,&mdash;had been trading Spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought
the Bundlesham property from a great duke.&nbsp; The estates of those
three gentlemen, with the domain of the Bishop of Elmham, lay all
around the Carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their
owners altogether to overshadow our squire.&nbsp; The superior wealth
of a bishop was nothing to him.&nbsp; He desired that bishops should
be rich, and was among those who thought that the country had been
injured when the territorial possessions of our prelates had been
converted into stipends by Act of Parliament.&nbsp; But the grandeur
of the Longestaffes and the too apparent wealth of the Primeros did
oppress him, though he was a man who would never breathe a word of
such oppression into the ear even of his dearest friend.&nbsp; It was
his opinion,&mdash;which he did not care to declare loudly, but which was
fully understood to be his opinion by those with whom he lived
intimately,&mdash;that a man's standing in the world should not depend at
all upon his wealth.&nbsp; The Primeros were undoubtedly beneath him
in the social scale, although the young Primeros had three horses
apiece, and killed legions of pheasants annually at about 10s. a
head.&nbsp; Hepworth of Eardly was a very good fellow, who gave
himself no airs and understood his duties as a country gentleman; but
he could not be more than on a par with Carbury of Carbury, though he
was supposed to enjoy &pound;7,000 a year.&nbsp; The Longestaffes were
altogether oppressive.&nbsp; Their footmen, even in the country, had
powdered hair.&nbsp; They had a house in town,&mdash;a house of their
own,&mdash;and lived altogether as magnates.&nbsp; The lady was Lady
Pomona Longestaffe.&nbsp; The daughters, who certainly were handsome,
had been destined to marry peers.&nbsp; The only son, Dolly, had, or
had had, a fortune of his own.&nbsp; They were an oppressive people
in a country neighbourhood.&nbsp; And to make the matter worse, rich
as they were, they never were able to pay anybody anything that they
owed.&nbsp; They continued to live with all the appurtenances of
wealth.&nbsp; The girls always had horses to ride, both in town and
country.&nbsp; The acquaintance of Dolly the reader has already
made.&nbsp; Dolly, who certainly was a poor creature though
good-natured, had energy in one direction.&nbsp; He would quarrel
perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest in the
estate.&nbsp; The house at Caversham Park was during six or seven
months of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all the
tradesmen in the little towns around, Bungay, Beccles, and
Harlestone, were aware that the Longestaffes were the great people of
that country.&nbsp; Though occasionally much distressed for money,
they would always execute the Longestaffe orders with submissive
punctuality, because there was an idea that the Longestaffe property
was sound at the bottom.&nbsp; And, then, the owner of a property so
managed cannot scrutinise bills very closely.

<p>Carbury of Carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not
pay, or his father before him.&nbsp; His orders to the tradesmen at
Beccles were not extensive, and care was used to see that the goods
supplied were neither overcharged nor unnecessary.&nbsp; The
tradesmen, consequently, of Beccles did not care much for Carbury of
Carbury;&mdash;though perhaps one or two of the elders among them
entertained some ancient reverence for the family.&nbsp; Roger
Carbury, Esq., was Carbury of Carbury,&mdash;a distinction of itself which,
from its nature, could not belong to the Longestaffes and Primeros,
which did not even belong to the Hepworths of Eardly.&nbsp; The very
parish in which Carbury Hall stood,&mdash;or Carbury Manor House, as it was
more properly called,&mdash;was Carbury parish.&nbsp; And there was Carbury
Chase, partly in Carbury parish and partly in Bundlesham,&mdash;but
belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety to the Bundlesham estate.

<p>Roger Carbury himself was all alone in the world.&nbsp; His
nearest relatives of the name were Sir Felix and Henrietta, but they
were no more than second cousins.&nbsp; He had sisters, but they had
long since been married and had gone away into the world with their
husbands, one to India, and another to the far west of the United
States.&nbsp; At present he was not much short of forty years of age,
and was still unmarried.&nbsp; He was a stout, good-looking man, with
a firmly set square face, with features finely cut, a small mouth,
good teeth, and well-formed chin.&nbsp; His hair was red, curling
round his head, which was now partly bald at the top.&nbsp; He wore
no other beard than small, almost unnoticeable whiskers.&nbsp; His
eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was
good.&nbsp; He was about five feet nine in height, having the
appearance of great strength and perfect health.&nbsp; A more manly
man to the eye was never seen.&nbsp; And he was one with whom you
would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good terms,&mdash;partly
because in looking at him there would come on you an unconscious
conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own against his
opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong, that he
would be very pleasant to his friends.

<p>When Sir Patrick had come home from India as an invalid, Roger
Carbury had hurried up to see him in London, and had proffered him
all kindness.&nbsp; Would Sir Patrick and his wife and children like
to go down to the old place in the country?&nbsp; Sir Patrick did not
care a straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin
in almost those very words.&nbsp; There had not, therefore, been much
friendship during Sir Patrick's life.&nbsp; But when the violent
ill-conditioned old man was dead, Roger paid a second visit, and
again offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,&mdash;and to the
young baronet.&nbsp; The young baronet had just joined his regiment
and did not care to visit his cousin in Suffolk; but Lady Carbury and
Henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to
make them happy.&nbsp; The effort as regarded Henrietta had been
altogether successful.&nbsp; As regarded the widow, it must be
acknowledged that Carbury Hall had not quite suited her tastes.&nbsp;
She had already begun to sigh for the glories of a literary
career.&nbsp; A career of some kind,&mdash;sufficient to repay her for the
sufferings of her early life,&mdash;she certainly desired.&nbsp; "Dear
cousin Roger," as she called him, had not seemed to her to have much
power of assisting her in these views.&nbsp; She was a woman who did
not care much for country charms.&nbsp; She had endeavoured to get up
some mild excitement with the bishop, but the bishop had been too
plain spoken and sincere for her.&nbsp; The Primeros had been odious;
the Hepworths stupid; the Longestaffes,&mdash;she had endeavoured to make
up a little friendship with Lady Pomona,&mdash;insufferably
supercilious.&nbsp; She had declared to Henrietta "that Carbury Hall
was very dull."

<p>But then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed
her opinions as to Carbury Hall, and its proprietor.&nbsp; The
proprietor after a few weeks followed them up to London, and made a
most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's
hand.&nbsp; He was at that time thirty-six, and Henrietta was not yet
twenty.&nbsp; He was very cool;&mdash;some might have thought him
phlegmatic in his love-making.&nbsp; Henrietta declared to her mother
that she had not in the least expected it.&nbsp; But he was very
urgent, and very persistent.&nbsp; Lady Carbury was eager on his
side.&nbsp; Though the Carbury Manor House did not exactly suit her,
it would do admirably for Henrietta.&nbsp; And as for age, to her
thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young
enough for any girl.&nbsp; But Henrietta had an opinion of her
own.&nbsp; She liked her cousin, but did not love him.&nbsp; She was
amazed, and even annoyed by the offer.&nbsp; She had praised him and
praised the house so loudly to her mother,&mdash;having in her innocence
never dreamed of such a proposition as this,&mdash;so that now she found
it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal.&nbsp;
Yes;&mdash;she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming, but she
had not meant charming in that way.&nbsp; She did refuse the offer
very plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency.&nbsp;
When Roger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it,
and her mother supported Roger's suggestion, she could say nothing
stronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do
any good.&nbsp; Their first visit to Carbury had been made in
September.&nbsp; In the following February she went there
again,&mdash;much against the grain as far as her own wishes were
concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost dumb in
the presence of her cousin.&nbsp; Before they left the offer was
renewed, but Henrietta declared that she could not do as they would
have her.&nbsp; She could give no reason, only she did not love her
cousin in that way.&nbsp; But Roger declared that he by no means
intended to abandon his suit.&nbsp; In truth he verily loved the girl,
and love with him was a serious thing.&nbsp; All this happened a full
year before the beginning of our present story.

<p>But something else happened also.&nbsp; While that second visit
was being made at Carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom
Roger Carbury had said much to his cousins,&mdash;one Paul Montague, of
whom some short account shall be given in this chapter.&nbsp; The
squire,&mdash;Roger Carbury was always called the squire about his own
place,&mdash;had anticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of
his cousins to his house that they must of necessity meet Paul
Montague there.&nbsp; But great harm had come of it.&nbsp; Paul
Montague had fallen into love with his cousin's guest, and there had
sprung up much unhappiness.

<p>Lady Carbury and Henrietta had been nearly a month at Carbury, and
Paul Montague had been there barely a week, when Roger Carbury thus
spoke to the guest who had last arrived.&nbsp; "I've got to tell you
something, Paul."

<p>"Anything serious?"

<p>"Very serious to me.&nbsp; I may say so serious that nothing in my
own life can approach it in importance."&nbsp; He had unconsciously
assumed that look, which his friend so thoroughly understood,
indicating his resolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and
to fight if fighting be necessary.&nbsp; Montague knew him well, and
became half aware that he had done something, he knew not what,
militating against this serious resolve of his friend.&nbsp; He
looked up, but said nothing.&nbsp; "I have offered my hand in
marriage to my cousin Henrietta," said Roger, very gravely.

<p>"Miss Carbury?"

<p>"Yes; to Henrietta Carbury.&nbsp; She has not accepted it.&nbsp;
She has refused me twice.&nbsp; But I still have hopes of
success.&nbsp; Perhaps I have no right to hope, but I do.&nbsp; I
tell it you just as it is.&nbsp; Everything in life to me depends
upon it.&nbsp; I think I may count upon your sympathy."

<p>"Why did you not tell me before?" said Paul Montague in a hoarse
voice.

<p>Then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick
speaking between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly,
each of them declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used
by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally
unreasonable.&nbsp; Montague at once asserted that he also loved
Henrietta Carbury.&nbsp; He blurted out his assurance in the baldest
and most incomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no
doubt.&nbsp; No;&mdash;he had not said a word to her.&nbsp; He had
intended to consult Roger Carbury himself,&mdash;should have done so in a
day or two,&mdash;perhaps on that very day had not Roger spoken to
him.&nbsp; "You have neither of you a shilling in the world," said
Roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon
it."&nbsp; Then Montague declared that he had a right to speak to
Miss Carbury.&nbsp; He did not suppose that Miss Carbury cared a
straw about him.&nbsp; He had not the least reason to think that she
did.&nbsp; It was altogether impossible.&nbsp; But he had a right to
his chance.&nbsp; That chance was all the world to him.&nbsp; As to
money,&mdash;he would not admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he
might earn an income as well as other men.&nbsp; Had Carbury told him
that the young lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his,
Carbury's, addresses, he, Paul, would at once have disappeared from
the scene.&nbsp; But as it was not so, he would not say that he would
abandon his hope.

<p>The scene lasted for above an hour.&nbsp; When it was ended, Paul
Montague packed up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway
station by Roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies.&nbsp;
There had been very hot words between the men, but the last words
which Roger spoke to the other on the railway platform were not
quarrelsome in their nature.&nbsp; "God bless you, old fellow," he
said, pressing Paul's hands.&nbsp; Paul's eyes were full of tears,
and he replied only by returning the pressure.

<p>Paul Montague's father and mother had long been dead.&nbsp; The
father had been a barrister in London, having perhaps some small
fortune of his own.&nbsp; He had, at any rate, left to this son, who
was one among others, a sufficiency with which to begin the
world.&nbsp; Paul when he had come of age had found himself possessed
of about &pound;6,000.&nbsp; He was then at Oxford, and was intended for
the bar.&nbsp; An uncle of his, a younger brother of his father, had
married a Carbury, the younger sister of two, though older than her
brother Roger.&nbsp; This uncle many years since had taken his wife
out to California, and had there become an American.&nbsp; He had a
large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and fruit; but whether
he prospered or whether he did not, had not always been plain to the
Montagues and Carburys at home.&nbsp; The intercourse between the two
families had, in the quite early days of Paul Montague's life,
created an affection between him and Roger, who, as will be
understood by those who have carefully followed the above family
history, were not in any degree related to each other.&nbsp; Roger,
when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education,
and had sent him to Oxford.&nbsp; But the Oxford scheme, to be
followed by the bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial
benches of the country, had not succeeded.&nbsp; Paul had got into a
"row" at Balliol, and had been rusticated,&mdash;had then got into another
row, and was sent down.&nbsp; Indeed he had a talent for
rows,&mdash;though, as Roger Carbury always declared, there was nothing
really wrong about any of them.&nbsp; Paul was then twenty-one, and
he took himself and his money out to California, and joined his
uncle.&nbsp; He had perhaps an idea,&mdash;based on very insufficient
grounds,&mdash;that rows are popular in California.&nbsp; At the end of
three years he found that he did not like farming life in
California,&mdash;and he found also that he did not like his uncle.&nbsp;
So he returned to England, but on returning was altogether unable to
get his &pound;6,000 out of the Californian farm.&nbsp; Indeed he had been
compelled to come away without any of it, with funds insufficient
even to take him home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an
assurance from his uncle that an income amounting to ten per cent,
upon his capital should be remitted to him with the regularity of
clockwork.&nbsp; The clock alluded to must have been one of Sam
Slick's.&nbsp; It had gone very badly.&nbsp; At the end of the first
quarter there came the proper remittance,&mdash;then half the
amount,&mdash;then there was a long interval without anything; then some
dropping payments now and again;&mdash;and then a twelvemonth without
anything.&nbsp; At the end of that twelvemonth he paid a second visit
to California, having borrowed money from Roger for his
journey.&nbsp; He had now again returned, with some little cash in
hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in his
favour by one Hamilton K. Fisker, who had gone into partnership with
his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's
concerns.&nbsp; In accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per
cent, on his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his
name put up as one of the firm, which now stood as Fisker, Montague,
and Montague.&nbsp; A business declared by the two elder partners to
be most promising had been opened at Fiskerville, about two hundred
and fifty miles from San Francisco, and the hearts of Fisker and the
elder Montague were very high.&nbsp; Paul hated Fisker horribly, did
not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his &pound;6,000
had he been able.&nbsp; But he was not able, and returned as one of
Fisker, Montague, and Montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had
succeeded in obtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed
to Roger, and to live for a few months.&nbsp; He was intent on
considering how he should bestow himself, consulting daily with Roger
on the subject, when suddenly Roger had perceived that the young man
was becoming attached to the girl whom he himself loved.&nbsp; What
then occurred has been told.

<p>Not a word was said to Lady Carbury or her daughter of the real
cause of Paul's sudden disappearance.&nbsp; It had been necessary
that he should go to London.&nbsp; Each of the ladies probably
guessed something of the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other
on the subject Before they left the Manor the squire again pleaded
his cause with Henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain.&nbsp; Henrietta
was colder than ever,&mdash;but she made use of one unfortunate phrase
which destroyed all the effect which her coldness might have
had.&nbsp; She said that she was too young to think of marrying
yet.&nbsp; She had meant to imply that the difference in their ages
was too great, but had not known how to say it.&nbsp; It was easy to
tell her that in a twelve-month she would be older;&mdash;but it was
impossible to convince her that any number of twelvemonths would
alter the disparity between her and her cousin.&nbsp; But even that
disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she
could not marry Roger Carbury.

<p>Within a week of the departure of Lady Carbury from the Manor
House, Paul Montague returned, and returned as a still dear
friend.&nbsp; He had promised before he went that he would not see
Henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing
further.&nbsp; "If she won't take you, there is no reason why I
shouldn't try."&nbsp; That had been his argument.&nbsp; Roger would
not accede to the justice even of this.&nbsp; It seemed to him that
Paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had got no
income, partly because of Roger's previous claim,&mdash;partly no doubt in
gratitude, but of this last reason Roger never said a word.&nbsp; If
Paul did not see this himself, Paul was not such a man as his friend
had taken him to be.

<p>Paul did see it himself, and had many scruples.&nbsp; But why
should his friend be a dog in the manger?&nbsp; He would yield at
once to Roger Carbury's older claims if Roger could make anything of
them.&nbsp; Indeed he could have no chance if the girl were disposed
to take Roger for her husband.&nbsp; Roger had all the advantage of
Carbury Manor at his back, whereas he had nothing but his share in
the doubtful business of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, in a
wretched little town 250 miles further off than San Francisco!&nbsp;
But if with all this, Roger could not prevail, why should he not
try?&nbsp; What Roger said about want of money was mere
nonsense.&nbsp; Paul was sure that his friend would have created no
such difficulty had not he himself been interested.&nbsp; Paul
declared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and
that he certainly would not give up Henrietta on that score.

<p>He came up to London at various times in search of certain
employment which had been half promised him, and, after the
expiration of the three months, constantly saw Lady Carbury and her
daughter.&nbsp; But from time to time he had given renewed promises
to Roger Carbury that he would not declare his passion,&mdash;now for two
months, then for six weeks, then for a month.&nbsp; In the meantime
the two men were fast friends,&mdash;so fast that Montague spent by far the
greater part of his time as his friend's guest,&mdash;and all this was done
with the understanding that Roger Carbury was to blaze up into
hostile wrath should Paul ever receive the privilege to call himself
Henrietta Carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be
smooth between them should Henrietta be persuaded to become the
mistress of Carbury Hall.&nbsp; So things went on up to the night at
which Montague met Henrietta at Madame Melmotte's ball.&nbsp; The
reader should also be informed that there had been already a former
love affair in the young life of Paul Montague.&nbsp; There had been,
and indeed there still was, a widow, one Mrs Hurtle, whom he had been
desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to California;&mdash;
but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of Roger
Carbury.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="7"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER VII.&nbsp; Mentor</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter
was greatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son.&nbsp;
Since Roger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad
to worse, till his condition had become one of hopeless
embarrassment.&nbsp; If her daughter could but be settled in the
world, Lady Carbury said to herself, she could then devote herself to
the interests of her son.&nbsp; She had no very clear idea of what
that devotion would be.&nbsp; But she did know that she had paid so
much money for him, and would have so much more extracted from her,
that it might well come to pass that she would be unable to keep a
home for her daughter.&nbsp; In all these troubles she constantly
appealed to Roger Carbury for advice,&mdash;which, however, she never
followed.&nbsp; He recommended her to give up her house in town, to
find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also for Felix if he
would consent to follow her.&nbsp; Should he not so consent, then let
the young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings.&nbsp; Doubtless,
when he could no longer get bread in London he would find her
out.&nbsp; Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet,&mdash;or
seemed to Lady Carbury to be severe.

<p>But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might
follow it.&nbsp; She had plans in her head with which she knew that
Roger would not sympathise.&nbsp; She still thought that Sir Felix
might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the
husband of a great heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was
proud of him in that anticipation.&nbsp; When he succeeded in
obtaining from her money, as in the case of that &pound;20,&mdash;when, with
brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his
club at two in the morning, when with impudent drollery he almost
boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would
come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole
night without sleeping.&nbsp; But could he marry Miss Melmotte, and
thus conquer all his troubles by means of his own personal
beauty,&mdash;then she would be proud of all that had passed.&nbsp; With
such a condition of mind Roger Carbury could have no sympathy.&nbsp;
To him it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed money to a
tradesman which he could not pay.&nbsp; And Lady Carbury's heart was
high with other hopes,&mdash;in spite of her hysterics and her
fears.&nbsp; The "Criminal Queens" might be a great literary
success.&nbsp; She almost thought that it would be a success.&nbsp;
Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, the publishers, were civil to her.&nbsp;
Mr Broune had promised.&nbsp; Mr Booker had said that he would see
what could be done.&nbsp; She had gathered from Mr Alf's caustic and
cautious words that the book would be noticed in the "Evening
Pulpit."&nbsp; No;&mdash;she would not take dear Roger's advice as to
leaving London.&nbsp; But she would continue to ask Roger's
advice.&nbsp; Men like to have their advice asked.&nbsp; And, if
possible, she would arrange the marriage.&nbsp; What country
retirement could be so suitable for a Lady Carbury when she wished to
retire for awhile,&mdash;as Carbury Manor, the seat of her own
daughter?&nbsp; And then her mind would fly away into regions of
bliss.&nbsp; If only by the end of this season Henrietta could be
engaged to her cousin, Felix be the husband of the richest bride in
Europe, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest book of
the year, what a Paradise of triumph might still be open to her after
all her troubles.&nbsp; Then the sanguine nature of the woman would
bear her up almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be happy
in spite of everything.

<p>A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was up in town and was
closeted with her in her back drawing-room.&nbsp; The declared cause
of his coming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and the
indispensable necessity,&mdash;so Roger thought,&mdash;of taking some steps by
which at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought
to an end.&nbsp; It was horrible to him that a man who had not a
shilling in the world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing
and never thought of earning anything should have hunters!&nbsp; He
was very much in earnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his
mind to the young man himself,&mdash;if he could get hold of him.&nbsp;
"Where is he now, Lady Carbury,&mdash;at this moment?"

<p>"I think he's out with the Baron."&nbsp; Being "out with the
Baron." meant that the young man was hunting with the staghounds some
forty miles away from London.

<p>"How does he manage it?&nbsp; Whose horses does he ride?&nbsp; Who
pays for them?"

<p>"Don't be angry with me, Roger.&nbsp; What can I do to prevent it?"

<p>"I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while
he continues in such courses."

<p>"My own son!"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;exactly.&nbsp; But what is to be the end of it?&nbsp; Is he
to be allowed to ruin you and Hetta?&nbsp; It can't go on long."

<p>"You wouldn't have me throw him over."

<p>"I think he is throwing you over.&nbsp; And then it is so
thoroughly dishonest,&mdash;so ungentlemanlike!&nbsp; I don't understand
how it goes on from day to day.&nbsp; I suppose you don't supply him
with ready money?"

<p>"He has had a little."

<p>Roger frowned angrily.&nbsp; "I can understand that you should
provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his
vices by giving him money."&nbsp; This was very plain speaking, and
Lady Carbury winced under it.&nbsp; "The kind of life that he is
leading requires a large income of itself.&nbsp; I understand the
thing, and know that with all I have in the world I could not do it
myself."

<p>"You are so different."

<p>"I am older of course,&mdash;very much older.&nbsp; But he is not so
young that he should not begin to comprehend.&nbsp; Has he any money
beyond what you give him?"

<p>Then Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun
to entertain during the last day or two.&nbsp; "I think he has been
playing."

<p>"That is the way to lose money,&mdash;not to get it." said Roger.

<p>"I suppose somebody wins,&mdash;sometimes."

<p>"They who win are the sharpers.&nbsp; They who lose are the
dupes.&nbsp; I would sooner that he were a fool than a knave."

<p>"O Roger, you are so severe!"

<p>"You say he plays.&nbsp; How would he pay, were he to lose?"

<p>"I know nothing about it.&nbsp; I don't even know that he does
play; but I have reason to think that during the last week he has had
money at his command.&nbsp; Indeed I have seen it.&nbsp; He comes
home at all manner of hours and sleeps late.&nbsp; Yesterday I went
into his room about ten and did not wake him.&nbsp; There were notes
and gold lying on his table;&mdash;ever so much."

<p>"Why did you not take them?"

<p>"What; rob my own boy?"

<p>"When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay
your own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from
you!&nbsp; Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?"

<p>"Ah, indeed;&mdash;why not?&nbsp; He ought to if he has it.&nbsp; And
there were papers there;&mdash;I.O.U.'s signed by other men."

<p>"You looked at them."

<p>"I saw as much as that.&nbsp; It is not that I am curious but one
does feel about one's own son.&nbsp; I think he has bought another
horse.&nbsp; A groom came here and said something about it to the
servants."

<p>"Oh dear oh dear!"

<p>"If you could only induce him to stop the gambling!&nbsp; Of
course it is very bad whether he wins or loses,&mdash;though I am sure
that Felix would do nothing unfair.&nbsp; Nobody ever said that of
him.&nbsp; If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he
would let me have some of it,&mdash;for to tell the truth.&nbsp; I hardly
know how to turn.&nbsp; I am sure nobody can say that I spend it on
myself."

<p>Then Roger again repeated his advice.&nbsp; There could be no use
in attempting to keep up the present kind of life in Welbeck
Street.&nbsp; Welbeck Street might be very well without a penniless
spendthrift such as Sir Felix but must be ruinous under the present
conditions.&nbsp; If Lady Carbury felt, as no doubt she did feel,
bound to afford a home to her ruined son in spite of all his
wickedness and folly, that home should be found far away from
London.&nbsp; If he chose to remain in London, let him do so on his
own resources.&nbsp; The young man should make up his mind to do
something for himself.&nbsp; A career might possibly be opened for
him in India.&nbsp; "If he be a man he would sooner break stones than
live on you." said Roger.&nbsp; Yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow
and speak to him;&mdash;that is if he could possibly find him.&nbsp; "Young
men who gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily
found."&nbsp; But he would come at twelve as Felix generally
breakfasted at that hour.&nbsp; Then he gave an assurance to Lady
Carbury which to her was not the least comfortable part of the
interview.&nbsp; In the event of her son not giving her the money
which she at one once required he, Roger, would lend her a hundred
pounds till her half year's income should be due.&nbsp; After that
his voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on another
subject.&nbsp; "Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?"

<p>"Certainly;&mdash;why not?&nbsp; She is at, home now, I think."

<p>"I will wait till to-morrow,&mdash;when I call to see Felix.&nbsp; I
should like her to know that I am coming.&nbsp; Paul Montague was in
town the other day.&nbsp; He was here, I suppose?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;he called."

<p>"Was that all you saw of him?"

<p>"He was at the Melmottes' ball.&nbsp; Felix got a card for
him;&mdash;and we were there.&nbsp; Has he gone down to Carbury?"

<p>"No;&mdash;not to Carbury.&nbsp; I think he had some business about his
partners at Liverpool.&nbsp; There is another case of a young man
without anything to do.&nbsp; Not that Paul is at all like Sir
Felix."&nbsp; This he was induced to say by the spirit of honesty
which was always strong within him.

<p>"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix." said Lady Carbury.&nbsp;
Roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to
be too hard upon Sir Felix Carbury.

<p>The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he
was up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger
was coming to lecture him.&nbsp; "What the devil's the use of it?"
said Felix from beneath the bedclothes.

<p>"If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room."

<p>"But what is the use of his coming to me?&nbsp; I know what he has
got to say just as if it were said.&nbsp; It's all very well
preaching sermons to good people, but nothing ever was got by
preaching to people who ain't good."

<p>"Why shouldn't you be good?"

<p>"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me
alone.&nbsp; I can play my hand better than he can play for me.&nbsp;
If you'll go now I'll get up."&nbsp; She had intended to ask him for
some of the money which she believed he still possessed; but her
courage failed her.&nbsp; If she asked for his money, and took it,
she would in some fashion recognise and tacitly approve his
gambling.&nbsp; It was not yet eleven, and it was early for him to
leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get out of the house
before that horrible bore should be upon him with his sermon.&nbsp;
To do this he must be energetic.&nbsp; He was actually eating his
breakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in his mind
how he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into the
street,&mdash;towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would
certainly not come.&nbsp; He left the house at ten minutes before
twelve, cunningly turned away, dodging round by the first
corner,&mdash;and just as he had turned it encountered his cousin.&nbsp;
Roger, anxious in regard to his errand, with time at his command, had
come before the hour appointed and had strolled about, thinking not
of Felix but of Felix's sister.&nbsp; The baronet felt that he had
been caught,&mdash;caught unfairly, but by no means abandoned all hope of
escape.&nbsp; "I was going to your mother's house on purpose to see
you," said Roger.

<p>"Were you indeed?&nbsp; I am so sorry.&nbsp; I have an engagement out here with a
fellow which I must keep.&nbsp; I could meet you at any other time, you
know."

<p>"You can come back for ten minutes," said Roger, taking him by the
arm.

<p>"Well;&mdash;not conveniently at this moment."

<p>"You must manage it.&nbsp; I am here at your mother's request, and
can't afford to remain in town day after day looking for you.&nbsp; I
go down to Carbury this afternoon.&nbsp; Your friend can wait.&nbsp;
Come along."&nbsp; His firmness was too much for Felix, who lacked
the courage to shake his cousin off violently, and to go his
way.&nbsp; But as he returned he fortified himself with the
remembrance of all the money in his pocket,&mdash;for he still had his
winnings,&mdash;remembered too certain sweet words which had passed
between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he
would not be sat upon by Roger Carbury.&nbsp; The time was
coming,&mdash;he might almost say that the time had come,&mdash;in which he
might defy Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Nevertheless, he dreaded the words
which were now to be spoken to him with a craven fear.

<p>"Your mother tells me," said Roger, "that you still keep hunters."

<p>"I don't know what she calls hunters.&nbsp; I have one that I
didn't part with when the others went."

<p>"You have only one horse?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the
horse I ride."

<p>"And another up here in town?"

<p>"Who told you that?&nbsp; No; I haven't.&nbsp; At least there is
one staying at some stables which, has been sent for me to look at."

<p>"Who pays for all these horses?"

<p>"At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them."

<p>"No;&mdash;you would be afraid to do that.&nbsp; But you have no
scruple in asking your mother, though you should force her to come to
me or to other friends for assistance.&nbsp; You have squandered
every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her."

<p>"That isn't true.&nbsp; I have money of my own."

<p>"Where did you get it?"

<p>"This is all very well.&nbsp; Roger; but I don't know that you
have any right to ask me these questions.&nbsp; I have money.&nbsp;
If I buy a horse I can pay for it.&nbsp; If I keep one or two I can
pay for them.&nbsp; Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people
owe me money too.&nbsp; I'm all right, and you needn't frighten
yourself."

<p>"Then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when
you have money not pay it back to her?"

<p>"She can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that."

<p>"I mean that, and a good deal more than that.&nbsp; I suppose you
have been gambling."

<p>"I don't know that I am bound to answer your questions, and I
won't do it.&nbsp; If you have nothing else to say, I'll go about my
own business."

<p>"I have something else to say, and I mean to say it."&nbsp; Felix
had walked towards the door, but Roger was before him, and now leaned
his back against it.

<p>"I'm not going to be kept here against my will," said Felix.

<p>"You have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still.&nbsp; Do
you wish to be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?"

<p>"Oh;&mdash;go on!"

<p>"That is what it will be.&nbsp; You have spent every shilling of
your own,&mdash;and because your mother is affectionate and weak you are
now spending all that she has, and are bringing her and your sister
to beggary."

<p>"I don't ask her to pay anything for me."

<p>"Not when you borrow her money?"

<p>"There is the &pound;20.&nbsp; Take it and give it her." said Felix,
counting the notes out of the pocket-book.&nbsp; "When I asked, her
for it, I did not think she would make such a row about such a
trifle."&nbsp; Roger took up the notes and thrust them into his
pocket.&nbsp; "Now, have you done?" said Felix.

<p>"Not quite.&nbsp; Do you purpose that your mother should keep you
and clothe you for the rest of your life?"

<p>"I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much
better than it has ever been done before.&nbsp; The truth is, Roger,
you know nothing about it.&nbsp; If you'll leave me to myself you'll
find that I shall do very well."

<p>"I don't know any young man who ever did worse or one who had less
moral conception of what is right and wrong."

<p>"Very well.&nbsp; That's your idea.&nbsp; I differ from you.&nbsp;
People can't all think alike, you know.&nbsp; Now, if you please,
I'll go."

<p>Roger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he
hardly knew how to get it said.&nbsp; And of what use could it be to
talk to a young man who was altogether callous and without
feeling?&nbsp; The remedy for the evil ought to be found in the
mother's conduct rather than the son's.&nbsp; She, were she not
foolishly weak, would make up her mind to divide herself utterly from
her son, at any rate for a while, and to leave him to suffer utter
penury.&nbsp; That would bring him round.&nbsp; And then when the
agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread and
meat from her hand and would be humble.&nbsp; At present he had money
in his pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free from
inconvenience for the moment.&nbsp; While this prosperity remained it
would be impossible to touch him.&nbsp; "You will ruin your sister,
and break your mother's heart." said Roger, firing a last harmless
shot after the young reprobate.

<p>When Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the
front door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a
great success had been achieved because the &pound;20 had been
recovered.&nbsp; "I knew he would give it me back, if he had it." she
said.

<p>"Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?"

<p>"I suppose he did not like to talk about it.&nbsp; Has he said
that he got it by&mdash;playing?"

<p>"No,&mdash;he did not speak a word of truth while he was here.&nbsp;
You may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling.&nbsp; How
else should he have it?&nbsp; And you may take it for granted also
that he will lose all that he has got.&nbsp; He talked in the wildest
way,&mdash;saying that he would soon have a home for you and Hetta."

<p>"Did he,&mdash;dear boy!"

<p>"Had he any meaning?"

<p>"Oh; yes.&nbsp; And it is quite on the cards that it should be
so.&nbsp; You have heard of Miss Melmotte."

<p>"I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here,
and who is buying his way into society."

<p>"Everybody visits them now, Roger."

<p>"More shame for everybody.&nbsp; Who knows anything about
him,&mdash;except that he left Paris with the reputation of a specially
prosperous rogue?&nbsp; But what of him?"

<p>"Some people think that Felix will marry his only child.&nbsp;
Felix is handsome; isn't he?&nbsp; What young man is there nearly so
handsome?&nbsp; They say she'll have half a million of money."

<p>"That's his game;&mdash;is it?"

<p>"Don't you think he is right?"

<p>"No; I think he's wrong.&nbsp; But we shall hardly agree with each
other about that.&nbsp; Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?"
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="8"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.&nbsp; Love-Sick</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and
his cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the
expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage.&nbsp; It was impossible
that they should ever understand each other.&nbsp; To Lady Carbury
the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of
unmixed joy and triumph.&nbsp; Could it have been possible that Marie
Melmotte should be rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved
sentence in a penal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about
it.&nbsp; The wealth even in that case would certainly carry the day,
against the disgrace, and Lady Carbury would find reasons why poor
Marie should not be punished for her father's sins even while
enjoying the money which those sins had produced.&nbsp; But how
different were the existing facts?&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was not at the
galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square.&nbsp;
People said that Mr Melmotte had a reputation throughout Europe as a
gigantic swindler,&mdash;as one who in the dishonest and successful
pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing.&nbsp; People said of him
that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and deeply-laid
schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he had
swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him,
that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;&mdash;but what was
all this to Lady Carbury?&nbsp; If the duchesses condoned it all, did
it become her to be prudish?&nbsp; People also said that Melmotte
would yet get a fall,&mdash;that a man who had risen after such a fashion
never could long keep his head up.&nbsp; But he might keep his head
up long enough to give Marie her fortune.&nbsp; And then Felix wanted
a fortune so badly;&mdash;was so exactly the young man who ought to marry
a fortune!&nbsp; To Lady Carbury there was no second way of looking
at the matter.

<p>And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at
it.&nbsp; That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the
world, is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which
induces people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go
outside the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with
whomsoever the world shakes hands with, had never reached him.&nbsp;
The old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile still
prevailed with him.&nbsp; He was a gentleman;&mdash;and would have felt
himself disgraced to enter the house of such a one as Augustus
Melmotte.&nbsp; Not all the duchesses in the peerage, or all the
money in the city, could alter his notions or induce him to modify
his conduct.&nbsp; But he knew that it would be useless for him to
explain this to Lady Carbury.&nbsp; He trusted, however, that one of
the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between
honour and dishonour.&nbsp; Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a
higher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free
from soil.&nbsp; As for Felix,&mdash;he had so grovelled in the gutters as
to be dirt all over.&nbsp; Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings
of half a life could cleanse him.

<p>He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room.&nbsp; "Have you seen
Felix?" she said, as soon as they had greeted each other.

<p>"Yes.&nbsp; I caught him in the street."

<p>"We are so unhappy about him."

<p>"I cannot say but that you have reason.&nbsp; I think, you know,
that your mother indulges him foolishly."

<p>"Poor mamma!&nbsp; She worships the very ground he treads on."

<p>"Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that.&nbsp;
The fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."

<p>"What can mamma do?"

<p>"Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."

<p>"What would Felix do in the country?"

<p>"If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he
does in town?&nbsp; You would not like him to become a professional
gambler."

<p>"Oh, Mr Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!"

<p>"It seems cruel to say such things to you,&mdash;but in a matter of
such importance one is bound to speak the truth.&nbsp; I have no
influence over your mother; but you may have some.&nbsp; She asks my
advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it.&nbsp; I
don't blame her for that; but I am anxious, for the sake of&mdash;for the
sake of the family."

<p>"I am sure you are."

<p>"Especially for your sake.&nbsp; You will never throw him over."

<p>"You would not ask me to throw him over."

<p>"But he may drag you into the mud.&nbsp; For his sake you have
already been taken into the house of that man Melmotte."

<p>"I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind,"
said Henrietta drawing herself up.

<p>"Pardon me if I seem to interfere."

<p>"Oh, no;&mdash;it is no interference from you."

<p>"Pardon me then if I am rough.&nbsp; To me it seems that an injury
is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as
this man.&nbsp; Why does your mother seek his society?&nbsp; Not
because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or
his family;&mdash;but simply because there is a rich daughter."

<p>"Everybody goes there, Mr Carbury."

<p>"Yes,&mdash;that is the excuse which everybody makes.&nbsp; Is that
sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house?&nbsp; Is there not
another place, to which we are told that a great many are going,
simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable?&nbsp;
Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain
reasons of your own?&nbsp; I admit there is one reason here.&nbsp;
They have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he
may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves
her.&nbsp; After what you have heard, are the Melmottes people with
whom you would wish to be connected?"

<p>"I don't know."

<p>"I do.&nbsp; I know very well.&nbsp; They are absolutely
disgraceful.&nbsp; A social connection with the first
crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable."&nbsp; He spoke with a
degree of energy of which he was himself altogether unaware.&nbsp; He
knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were
extended.&nbsp; Of course she thought of his own offer to
herself.&nbsp; Of course, her mind at once conceived,&mdash;not that the
Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure
that she would never accept his offer,&mdash;but that he might think that
he would be so affected.&nbsp; Of course he resented the feeling
which she thus attributed to him.&nbsp; But, in truth, he was much
too simple-minded for any such complex idea.&nbsp; "Felix," he
continued, "has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be
anxious as to what houses he may frequent.&nbsp; But I should be
sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr Melmotte's."

<p>"I think, Mr Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not
taken where I ought not to be taken."

<p>"I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper
for you."

<p>"I hope I have.&nbsp; I am sorry you should think that I have
not."

<p>"I am old-fashioned, Hetta."

<p>"And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world.&nbsp; I dare
say it is so.&nbsp; You have been always very kind, but I almost
doubt whether you can change us, now.&nbsp; I have sometimes thought
that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other."

<p>"I have thought that you and I were,&mdash;or possibly might be fit for
each other."

<p>"Oh,&mdash;as for me.&nbsp; I shall always take mamma's side.&nbsp; If
mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with
her.&nbsp; If that is contamination, I suppose I must be
contaminated.&nbsp; I don't see why I'm to consider myself better
than any one else."

<p>"I have always thought that you were better than any one else."

<p>"That was before I went to the Melmottes.&nbsp; I am sure you have
altered your opinion now.&nbsp; Indeed you have told me so.&nbsp; I
am afraid, Mr Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours."

<p>He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to
perceive the working of her mind.&nbsp; He was so true to himself
that he did not understand that there should be with her even that
violet-coloured tinge of prevarication which women assume as an
additional charm.&nbsp; Could she really have thought that he was
attending to his own possible future interests when he warned her as
to the making of new acquaintances?

<p>"For myself." he said, putting out his hand and making a slight
vain effort to get hold of hers, "I have only one wish in the world;
and that is, to travel the same road with you.&nbsp; I do not say
that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am
sincere.&nbsp; When I spoke of the Melmottes did you believe that I
was thinking of myself?"

<p>"Oh no;&mdash;how should I?"

<p>"I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as
an elder brother.&nbsp; No contact with legions of Melmottes could
make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart has
settled.&nbsp; Even were you in truth disgraced,&mdash;could disgrace
touch one so pure as you,&mdash;it would be the same.&nbsp; I love you so
well that I have already taken you for better or for worse.&nbsp; I
cannot change.&nbsp; My nature is too stubborn for such
changes.&nbsp; Have you a word to say to comfort me?"&nbsp; She
turned away her head, but did not answer him at once.&nbsp; "Do you
understand how much I am in need of comfort?"

<p>"You can do very well without comfort from me."

<p>"No, indeed.&nbsp; I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very
well.&nbsp; As it is, I am not doing at all well.&nbsp; I am becoming
sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends.&nbsp; I would have
you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you."

<p>"I suppose you mean something."

<p>"I mean a great deal, dear.&nbsp; I mean all that a man can
mean.&nbsp; That is it.&nbsp; You hardly understand that I am serious
to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference
to the world on the other.&nbsp; I shall never give it up till I
learn that you are to be married to some one else."

<p>"What can I say, Mr Carbury?"

<p>"That you will love me."

<p>"But if I don't?"

<p>"Say that you will try."

<p>"No; I will not say that.&nbsp; Love should come without a
struggle.&nbsp; I don't know how one person is to try to love another
in that way.&nbsp; I like you very much; but being married is such a
terrible thing."

<p>"It would not be terrible to me, dear."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;when you found that I was too young for your tastes."

<p>"I shall persevere, you know.&nbsp; Will you assure me of
this,&mdash;that if you promise your hand to another man you will let me
know at once?"

<p>"I suppose I may promise that," she said, after pausing for a
moment.

<p>"There is no one as yet?"

<p>"There is no one.&nbsp; But, Mr Carbury, you have no right to
question me.&nbsp; I don't think it generous.&nbsp; I allow you to
say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and
because mamma trusts you so much.&nbsp; No one but mamma has a right
to ask me whether I care for any one."

<p>"Are you angry with me?"

<p>"No."

<p>"If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly."

<p>"I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a
gentleman.&nbsp; I don't think any girl would like it.&nbsp; I am not
to tell everybody all that happens."

<p>"Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it
you will forgive me.&nbsp; Good-bye now."&nbsp; She put out her hand
to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment.&nbsp; "When I
walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury where we used to be
together, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your
walking there as the mistress."

<p>"There is no chance."

<p>"I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so.&nbsp; Well;
good-bye, and may God bless you."

<p>The man had no poetry about him.&nbsp; He did not even care for
romance.&nbsp; All the outside belongings of love which are so
pleasant to many men and which to many women afford the one sweetness
in life which they really relish, were nothing to him.&nbsp; There
are both men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of
love are charming, even when they exist to the detriment of
hope.&nbsp; It is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to
pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretched after a romantic
fashion as have been those heroes and heroines of whose sufferings
they have read in poetry.&nbsp; But there was nothing of this with
Roger Carbury.&nbsp; He had, as he believed, found the woman that he
really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixed his
heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing.&nbsp; He
had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life had become
indifferent to him without her.&nbsp; No man in England could be less
likely to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his
brains.&nbsp; But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by
this sorrow.&nbsp; He could not make one thing bear upon another, so
as to console himself after any fashion.&nbsp; There was but one
thing for him;&mdash;to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally
lost her.&nbsp; And should the latter be his fate, as he began to
fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a
crippled man.

<p>He felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved
that other younger man.&nbsp; That she had never owned to such love
he was quite sure.&nbsp; The man himself and Henrietta also had both
assured him on this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words
and prone to believe.&nbsp; But he knew that Paul Montague was
attached to her, and that it was Paul's intention to cling to his
love.&nbsp; Sorrowfully looking forward through the vista of future
years, he thought he saw that Henrietta would become Paul's
wife.&nbsp; Were it so, what should he do?&nbsp; Annihilate himself
as far as all personal happiness in the world was concerned, and look
solely to their happiness, their prosperity, and their joys?&nbsp; Be
as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though the agony of his
own disappointment should never depart from him?&nbsp; Should he do
this and be blessed by them,&mdash;or should he let Paul Montague know
what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce?&nbsp; When had a
father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had
been to Paul?&nbsp; His home had been the young man's home, and his
purse the young man's purse.&nbsp; What right could the young man
have to come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him
of all that he had in the world?&nbsp; He was conscious all the while
that there was a something wrong in his argument,&mdash;that Paul when he
commenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,&mdash;that
the girl, though Paul had never come in the way, might probably have
been as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties.&nbsp; He knew all
this because his mind was clear.&nbsp; But yet the injustice,&mdash;at any
rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it
would be weak, womanly, and foolish.&nbsp; Roger Carbury did not
quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries.&nbsp; If you pardon all
the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil!&nbsp; If
you give your cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be,
before your shirt and trousers will go also?&nbsp; Roger Carbury,
returned that afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought of it all
throughout the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul
Montague if Paul Montague should become his cousin's husband.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="9"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER IX.&nbsp; The Great Railway to Vera Cruz</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"You have been a guest in his house.&nbsp; Then, I guess, the
thing's about as good as done."&nbsp; These words were spoken with a
fine, sharp, nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman
in one of the smartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at
Liverpool, and they were addressed to a young Englishman who was
sitting opposite to him.&nbsp; Between them there was a table covered
with maps, schedules, and printed programmes.&nbsp; The American was
smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his
mouth, and half of which was inside his teeth.&nbsp; The Englishman
had a short pipe.&nbsp; Mr Hamilton K. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker,
Montague, and Montague, was the American, and the Englishman was our
friend Paul, the junior member of that firm.

<p>"But I didn't even speak to him," said Paul.

<p>"In commercial affairs that matters nothing.&nbsp; It quite
justifies you in introducing me.&nbsp; We are not going to ask your
friend to do us a favour.&nbsp; We don't want to borrow money."

<p>"I thought you did."

<p>"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would
be no borrowing then.&nbsp; He'll join us if he's as clever as they
say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million of
dollars out of it.&nbsp; If he'd take the trouble to run over and
show himself in San Francisco, he'd make double that.&nbsp; The
moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he
understands the game and has got the pluck.&nbsp; A man who has done
what he has by financing in Europe,&mdash;by George! there's no limit to
what he might do with us.&nbsp; We're a bigger people than any of you
and have more room.&nbsp; We go after bigger things, and don't stand
shilly-shally on the brink as you do.&nbsp; But Melmotte pretty nigh
beats the best among us.&nbsp; Anyway he should come and try his
luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer thing than
this.&nbsp; He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half
an hour."

<p>"Mr Fisker," said Paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, I think
I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr
Melmotte's honesty."

<p>Mr Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his
mouth, and then closed one eye.&nbsp; "There is always a want of
charity," he said, "when a man is successful."

<p>The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central
Pacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from the Salt Lake
City, thus branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago
line,&mdash;and pass down through the fertile lands of New Mexico and
Arizona into the territory of the Mexican Republic, run by the city
of Mexico, and come out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz.&nbsp;
Mr Fisker admitted at once that it was a great undertaking,
acknowledged that the distance might be perhaps something over 2000
miles, acknowledged that no computation had or perhaps could be made
as to the probable cost of the railway; but seemed to think that
questions such as these were beside the mark and childish.&nbsp;
Melmotte, if he would go into the matter at all, would ask no such
questions.

<p>But we must go back a little.&nbsp; Paul Montague had received a
telegram from his partner, Hamilton K. Fisker, sent on shore at
Queenstown from one of the New York liners, requesting him to meet
Fisker at Liverpool immediately.&nbsp; With this request he had felt
himself bound to comply.&nbsp; Personally he had disliked
Fisker,&mdash;and perhaps not the less so because when in California he
had never found himself able to resist the man's good humour,
audacity, and cleverness combined.&nbsp; He had found himself talked
into agreeing with any project which Mr Fisker might have in
hand.&nbsp; It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet by
his own consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at
Fiskerville.&nbsp; He trembled for his money and never wished to see
Fisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he was proud to
remember that Fisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and
went down to Liverpool.

<p>If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present
project have done!&nbsp; Fisker explained that he had come with two
objects,&mdash;first to ask the consent of the English partner to the
proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the
cooperation of English capitalists.&nbsp; The proposed change in the
business meant simply the entire sale of the establishment at
Fiskerville, and the absorption of the whole capital in the work of
getting up the railway.&nbsp; "If you could realise all the money it
wouldn't make a mile of the railway," said Paul.&nbsp; Mr Fisker
laughed at him.&nbsp; The object of Fisker, Montague, and Montague
was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float a company.&nbsp;
Paul thought that Mr Fisker seemed to be indifferent whether the
railway should ever be constructed or not.&nbsp; It was clearly his
idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a
spadeful of earth had been moved.&nbsp; If brilliantly printed
programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful
little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy
mountains and coming out of them on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr
Fisker had certainly done much.&nbsp; But Paul, when he saw all these
pretty things, could not keep his mind from thinking whence had come
the money to pay for them.&nbsp; Mr Fisker had declared that he had
come over to obtain his partner's consent, but it seemed to that
partner that a great deal had been done without any consent.&nbsp;
And Paul's fears on this hand were not allayed by finding that on all
these beautiful papers he himself was described as one of the agents
and general managers of the company.&nbsp; Each document was signed
Fisker, Montague, and Montague.&nbsp; References on all matters were
to be made to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,&mdash;and in one of the
documents it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded to
London with the view of attending to British interests in the
matter.&nbsp; Fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would
express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus
falling upon him.&nbsp; A certain feeling of importance, not
altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there was
another conviction forced upon Montague's mind, not altogether
pleasant, that his, money was being made to disappear without any
consent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest
such consent should be extracted from him unawares.

<p>"What has become of the mill?" he asked

<p>"We have put an agent into it."

<p>"Is not that dangerous?&nbsp; What check have you on him?"

<p>"He pays us a fixed sum sir.&nbsp; But, my word! when there is
such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth
speaking of."

<p>"You haven't sold it?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;no.&nbsp; But we've arranged a price for a sale."

<p>"You haven't taken the money for it?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;yes; we have.&nbsp; We've raised money on it, you
know.&nbsp; You see you weren't there, and so the two resident
partners acted for the firm.&nbsp; But Mr Montague, you'd better go
with us.&nbsp; You had indeed."

<p>"And about my own income?"

<p>"That's a flea-bite.&nbsp; When we've got a little ahead with this
it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty
thousand dollars a year.&nbsp; We've got the concession from the
United States Government through the territories, and we're in
correspondence with the President of the Mexican Republic.&nbsp; I've
no doubt we've an office open already in Mexico and another at Vera
Cruz."

<p>"Where's the money to come from?"

<p>"Money to come from, sir?&nbsp; Where do you suppose the money
comes from in all these undertakings?&nbsp; If we can float the
shares, the money'll come in quick enough.&nbsp; We hold three
million dollars of the stock ourselves."

<p>"Six hundred thousand pounds!" said Montague.

<p>"We take them at par, of course,&mdash;and as we sell we shall pay for
them.&nbsp; But of course we shall only sell at a premium.&nbsp; If
we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand
dollars.&nbsp; But we'll do better than that.&nbsp; I must try and
see Melmotte at once.&nbsp; You had better write a letter now."

<p>"I don't know the man."

<p>"Never mind.&nbsp; Look here I'll write it, and you can sign
it."&nbsp; Whereupon Mr Fisker did write the following letter:&mdash;

<blockquote>
<i>
<br>
Langham Hotel, London.&nbsp; March 4, 18&mdash;.<br>
<br>
DEAR SIR<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have the pleasure of informing you that my partner Mr Fisker,&mdash;of
Fisker, Montague, and Montague, of San Francisco,&mdash;is now in London
with the view of allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying
out perhaps the greatest work of the age,&mdash;namely, the South Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give direct communication
between San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico.&nbsp; He is very
anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your
co-operation would be desirable.&nbsp; We feel assured that with your
matured judgment in such matters, you would see, at once, the
magnificence of the enterprise.&nbsp; If you will name a day and an
hour, Mr Fisker will call upon you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant evening
spent at your house last week.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mr Fisker proposes returning to New York.&nbsp; I shall remain here,
superintending the British interests which may be involved.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have the honour to be,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dear Sir,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Most faithfully yours.<br>
<br>
<br>
</i>
</blockquote>

<p>"But I have never said that I would superintend the interests,"
said Montague.

<p>"You can say so now.&nbsp; It binds you to nothing.&nbsp; You
regular John Bull Englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as
much of life as should serve to make an additional fortune."

<p>After some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter
and signed it.&nbsp; He did it with doubt,&mdash;almost with dismay.&nbsp;
But he told himself that he could do no good by refusing.&nbsp; If
this wretched American, with his hat on one side and rings on his
fingers, had so far got the upper hand of Paul's uncle as to have
been allowed to do what he liked with the funds of the partnership,
Paul could not stop it.&nbsp; On the following morning they went up
to London together, and in the course of the afternoon Mr Fisker
presented himself in Abchurch Lane.&nbsp; The letter written at
Liverpool, but dated from the Langham Hotel, had been posted at the
Euston Square Railway Station at the moment of Fisker's
arrival.&nbsp; Fisker sent in his card, and was asked to wait.&nbsp;
In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great man's
presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall.

<p>It has been already said that Mr Melmotte was a big man with large
whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a
harsh vulgar face.&nbsp; He was certainly a man to repel you by his
presence unless attracted to him by some internal
consideration.&nbsp; He was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful
in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him
therefore was not repelled.&nbsp; Fisker, on the other hand, was a
shining little man,&mdash;perhaps about forty years of age, with a
well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at
the top, good-looking if his features were analysed, but
insignificant in appearance.&nbsp; He was gorgeously dressed, with a
silk waistcoat, and chains, and he carried a little stick.&nbsp; One
would at first be inclined to say that Fisker was not much of a man;
but after a little conversation most men would own that there was
something in Fisker.&nbsp; He was troubled by no shyness, by no
scruples, and by no fears.&nbsp; His mind was not capacious, but such
as it was it was his own, and he knew how to use it.

<p>Abchurch Lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchant
prince.&nbsp; Here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass
plate on a swing door, bearing the words "Melmotte & Co."&nbsp; Of
whom the Co was composed no one knew.&nbsp; In one sense Mr Melmotte
might be said to be in company with all the commercial world, for
there was no business to which he would refuse his co-operation on
certain terms.&nbsp; But he had never burdened himself with a partner
in the usual sense of the term.&nbsp; Here Fisker found three or four
clerks seated at desks, and was desired to walk upstairs.&nbsp; The
steps were narrow and crooked, and the rooms were small and
irregular.&nbsp; Here he stayed for a while in a small dark apartment
in which "The Daily Telegraph" was left for the amusement of its
occupant till Miles Grendall announced to him that Mr Melmotte would
see him.&nbsp; The millionaire looked at him for a moment or two,
just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which Fisker
had projected.

<p>"I don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done
me the honour of writing to me about you."

<p>"I dare say not, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; When I'm at home in San
Francisco, I make acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't
remember afterwards.&nbsp; My partner I think told me that he went to
your house with his friend, Sir Felix Carbury."

<p>"I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury."

<p>"That's it.&nbsp; I could have got any amount of introductions to
you if I had thought this would not have sufficed."&nbsp; Mr Melmotte
bowed.&nbsp; "Our account here in London is kept with the City and
West End Joint Stock.&nbsp; But I have only just arrived, and as my
chief object in coming to London is to see you, and as I met my
partner, Mr Montague, in Liverpool, I took a note from him and came
on straight."

<p>"And what can I do for you, Mr Fisker?"

<p>Then Mr Fisker began his account of the Great South Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway, and exhibited considerable skill by
telling it all in comparatively few words.&nbsp; And yet he was
gorgeous and florid.&nbsp; In two minutes he had displayed his
programme, his maps, and his pictures before Mr Melmotte's eyes,
taking care that Mr Melmotte should see how often the names of
Fisker, Montague, and Montague, reappeared upon them.&nbsp; As Mr
Melmotte read the documents, Fisker from time to time put in a
word.&nbsp; But the words had no reference at all to the future
profits of the railway, or to the benefit which such means of
communication would confer upon the world at large; but applied
solely to the appetite for such stock as theirs, which might
certainly be produced in the speculating world by a proper
manipulation of the affairs.

<p>"You seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own
country," said Melmotte.

<p>"There's not a doubt about getting it all taken up there.&nbsp;
Our folk, sir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want them
to teach you, Mr Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing
like competition.&nbsp; When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that
the thing is alive in London, they'll be alive there.&nbsp; And it's
the same here, sir.&nbsp; When they know that the stock is running
like wildfire in America, they'll make it run here too."

<p>"How far have you got?"

<p>"What we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the line
from the United States Congress.&nbsp; We're to have the land for
nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every
station, the stations to be twenty-five miles apart."

<p>"And the land is to be made over to you,&mdash;when?"

<p>"When we have made the line up to the station."&nbsp; Fisker
understood perfectly that Mr Melmotte did not ask the question in
reference to any value that he might attach to the possession of such
lands, but to the attractiveness of such a prospectus in the eyes of
the outside world of speculators.

<p>"And what do you want me to do, Mr Fisker?"

<p>"I want to have your name there," he said.&nbsp; And he placed his
finger down on a spot on which it was indicated that there was, or
was to be, a chairman of an English Board of Directors, but with a
space for the name hitherto blank.

<p>"Who are to be your directors here, Mr Fisker?"

<p>"We should ask you to choose them, sir.&nbsp; Mr Paul Montague
should be one, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be
another.&nbsp; We could get probably one of the Directors of the City
and West End.&nbsp; But we would leave it all to you,&mdash;as also the
amount of stock you would like to take yourself.&nbsp; If you gave
yourself to it, heart and soul, Mr Melmotte, it would be the finest
thing that there has been out for a long time.&nbsp; There would be
such a mass of stock!"

<p>"You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?"

<p>"We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too
closely by old-fashioned bandages.&nbsp; Look at what we've done
already, sir, by having our limbs pretty free.&nbsp; Look at our
line, sir, right across the continent, from San Francisco to New
York.&nbsp; Look at&mdash;"

<p>"Never mind that, Mr Fisker.&nbsp; People wanted to go from New
York to San Francisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to
Vera Cruz.&nbsp; But I will look at it, and you shall hear from
me."&nbsp; The interview was over, and Mr Fisker was contented with
it.&nbsp; Had Mr Melmotte not intended at least to think of it, he
would not have given ten minutes to the subject.&nbsp; After all,
what was wanted from Mr Melmotte was little more than his name, for
the use of which Mr Fisker proposed that he should receive from the
speculative public two or three hundred thousand pounds.

<p>At the end of a fortnight from the date of Mr Fisker's arrival in
London, the company was fully launched in England, with a body of
London directors, of whom Mr Melmotte was the chairman.&nbsp; Among
the directors were Lord Alfred Grendall, Sir Felix Carbury, Samuel
Cohenlupe, Esq., Member of Parliament for Staines, a gentleman of the
Jewish persuasion, Lord Nidderdale, who was also in Parliament, and
Mr Paul Montague.&nbsp; It may be thought that the directory was not
strong, and that but little help could be given to any commercial
enterprise by the assistance of Lord Alfred or Sir Felix,&mdash;but it was
felt that Mr Melmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that
the fortune of the Company,&mdash;as a company,&mdash;was made.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="10"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER X.&nbsp; Mr Fisker's Success</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mr Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but
he never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the whole
transaction.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a
fact in the commercial world of London, that it was no longer
possible for such a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the
scheme.&nbsp; Melmotte had the telegraph at his command, and had been
able to make as close inquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake
City had been suburbs of London.&nbsp; He was chairman of the British
branch of the Company, and had had shares allocated to him,&mdash;or, as
he said, to the house,&mdash;to the extent of two millions of
dollars.&nbsp; But still there was a feeling of doubt, and a
consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought
by many to have been built upon the sands.

<p>Paul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much
in opposition to the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury,&mdash;and had
come up to live in town, that he might personally attend to the
affairs of the great railway.&nbsp; There was an office just behind
the Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary, the latter
position being held by Miles Grendall, Esq. Paul, who had a
conscience in the matter and was keenly alive to the fact that he was
not only a director but was also one of the firm of Fisker, Montague,
and Montague which was responsible for the whole affair, was
grievously anxious to be really at work, and would attend most
inopportunely at the Company's offices.&nbsp; Fisker, who still
lingered in London, did his best to put a stop to this folly, and on
more than one occasion somewhat snubbed his partner.&nbsp; "My dear
fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself?&nbsp; In a thing
of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there is nothing else
to do.&nbsp; You may have to work your fingers off before you can
make it move, and then fail.&nbsp; But all that has been done for
you.&nbsp; If you go there on the Thursdays that's quite as much as
you need do.&nbsp; You don't suppose that such a man as Melmotte
would put up with any real interference."&nbsp; Paul endeavoured to
assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to
take a part in the management;&mdash;that his fortune, such as it was, had
been embarked in the matter, and was as important to him as was Mr
Melmotte's fortune to Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; But Fisker got the better of
him and put him down.&nbsp; "Fortune! what fortune had either of us?
a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and barely
sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise.&nbsp; And now
where are you?&nbsp; Look here, sir;&mdash;there's more to be got out of
the smashing-up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up,
than could, be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as
yours and mine in the regular way of trade."

<p>Paul Montague certainly did not love Mr Fisker personally, nor did
he relish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be
carried away by them.&nbsp; "When and how was I to have helped
myself?" he wrote to Roger Carbury.&nbsp; "The money had been raised
and spent before this man came here at all.&nbsp; It's all very well
to say that he had no right to do it; but he had done it.&nbsp; I
couldn't even have gone to law with him without going over to
California, and then I should have got no redress."&nbsp; Through it
all he disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had one great merit which
certainly recommended itself warmly to Montague's appreciation.&nbsp;
Though he denied the propriety of Paul's interference in the
business, he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in the
existing dash of prosperity.&nbsp; As to the real facts of the money
affairs of the firm he would tell Paul nothing.&nbsp; But he was well
provided with money himself, and took care that his partner should he
in the same position.&nbsp; He paid him all the arrears of his
stipulated income up to the present moment, and put him nominally
into possession of a large number of shares in the railway,&mdash;with,
however, an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had
reached ten per cent. above par, and that in any sale transacted he
was to touch no other money than the amount of profit which would
thus accrue.&nbsp; What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his
shares, he never heard.&nbsp; As far as Montague could understand,
Melmotte was in truth to be powerful over everything.&nbsp; All this
made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant.&nbsp; He was
living in London and had money at command, but he never could rid
himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces
beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as one among a gang
of swindlers.

<p>We all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater
proportion of a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that
are offered to him and the lesser proportion to the cares,
sacrifices, and sorrows.&nbsp; Had this young director been
describing to his intimate friend the condition in which he found
himself, he would have declared himself to be distracted by doubts,
suspicions, and fears till his life was a burden to him.&nbsp; And
yet they who were living with him at this time found him to be a very
pleasant fellow, fond of amusement, and disposed to make the most of
all the good things which came in his way.&nbsp; Under the auspices
of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member of the Beargarden, at
which best of all possible clubs the mode of entrance was as
irregular as its other proceedings.&nbsp; When any young man desired
to come in who was thought to be unfit for its style of living, it
was shown to him that it would take three years before his name could
be brought up at the usual rate of vacancies; but in regard to
desirable companions the committee had a power of putting them at the
top of the list of candidates and bringing them in at once.&nbsp;
Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with considerable
commercial wealth and greater commercial influence.&nbsp; He sat at
the same Board with Melmotte and Melmotte's men; and was on this
account elected at the Beargarden without any of that harassing delay
to which other less fortunate candidates are subjected.

<p>And,&mdash;let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart
honest and well-conditioned,&mdash;he took to living a good deal at the
Beargarden.&nbsp; A man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that
a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere.&nbsp; It was thus he
reasoned with himself.&nbsp; But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden
were not cheap.&nbsp; He saw a good deal of his brother directors,
Sir Felix Carbury and Lord Nidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred more
than once at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman
amidst all the magnificence of merchant-princely hospitality in
Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; It had indeed been suggested to him by Mr
Fisker that he also ought to enter himself for the great Marie
Melmotte plate.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale had again declared his
intention of running, owing to considerable pressure put upon him by
certain interested tradesmen, and with this intention had become one
of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company.&nbsp; At the time,
however, of which we are now writing, Sir Felix was the favourite for
the race among fashionable circles generally.

<p>The middle of April had come, and Fisker was still in
London.&nbsp; When millions of dollars are at stake,&mdash;belonging
perhaps to widows and orphans, as Fisker remarked,&mdash;a man was forced
to set his own convenience on one side.&nbsp; But this devotion was
not left without reward, for Mr Fisker had "a good time" in
London.&nbsp; He also was made free of the Beargarden, as an honorary
member, and he also spent a good deal of money.&nbsp; But there is
this comfort in great affairs, that whatever you spend on yourself
can be no more than a trifle.&nbsp; Champagne and ginger-beer are all
the same when you stand to win or lose thousands,&mdash;with this only
difference, that champagne may have deteriorating results which the
more innocent beverage will not produce.&nbsp; The feeling that the
greatness of these operations relieved them from the necessity of
looking to small expenses operated in the champagne direction, both
on Fisker and Montague, and the result was deleterious.&nbsp; The
Beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place than Carbury Manor, but
Montague found that he could not wake up on these London mornings
with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attended his pillow at
the old Manor House.

<p>On Saturday, the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London on his
return to New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given
to him at the club.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was asked to meet him, and on
such an occasion all the resources of the club were to be brought
forth.&nbsp; Lord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr
Cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with Melmotte.&nbsp;
Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, and Miles Grendall were members of the
club, and gave the dinner.&nbsp; No expense was spared.&nbsp; Herr
Vossner purveyed the viands and wines,&mdash;and paid for them.&nbsp; Lord
Nidderdale took the chair, with Fisker on his right hand, and
Melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going young lord, was supposed
to have done the thing well.&nbsp; There were only two toasts drunk,
to the healths of Mr Melmotte and Mr Fisker, and two speeches were of
course made by them.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte may have been held to have
clearly proved the genuineness of that English birth which he claimed
by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on the
occasion.&nbsp; He stood with his hands on the table and with his
face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating
of this railway company would be one of the greatest and most
successful commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the
Atlantic.&nbsp; It was a great thing,&mdash;a very great thing;&mdash;he had no
hesitation in saying that it was one of the greatest things
out.&nbsp; He didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out.&nbsp;
He was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so
great a thing,&mdash;and so on.&nbsp; These assertions, not varying much
one from the other, he jerked out like so many separate
interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in the face at each,
and then turning his countenance back to his plate as though seeking
for inspiration for the next attempt.&nbsp; He was not eloquent; but
the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was the great Augustus
Melmotte, that he might probably make them all rich men, and they
cheered him to the echo.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had reconciled himself to
be called by his Christian name, since he had been put in the way of
raising two or three hundred pounds on the security of shares which
were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh he had as yet
seen nothing.&nbsp; Wonderful are the ways of trade!&nbsp; If one can
only get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie, what
noble morsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is
extracted!

<p>When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent,
fast, and florid.&nbsp; Without giving it word for word, which would
be tedious, I could not adequately set before the reader's eye the
speaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmony
which was to be produced by a railway from Salt Lake City to Vera
Cruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at large
which might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the
great firms of Melmotte & Co, of London, and Fisker, Montague, and
Montague of San Francisco.&nbsp; Mr Fisker's arms were waved
gracefully about.&nbsp; His head was turned now this way and now
that, but never towards his plate.&nbsp; It was very well done.&nbsp;
But there was more faith in one ponderous word from Mr Melmotte's
mouth than in all the American's oratory.

<p>There was not one of them then present who had not after some
fashion been given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not
by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the
railway shares.&nbsp; They had all whispered to each other their
convictions on this head.&nbsp; Even Montague did not beguile himself
into an idea that he was really a director in a company to be
employed in the making and working of a railway.&nbsp; People out of
doors were to be advertised into buying shares, and they who were so
to say indoors were to have the privilege of manufacturing the shares
thus to be sold.&nbsp; That was to be their work, and they all knew
it.&nbsp; But now, as there were eight of them collected together,
they talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of
nations.

<p>After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went
with him.&nbsp; Lord Alfred would have liked to remain, being a man
who enjoyed tobacco and soda-and-brandy,&mdash;but momentous days had come
upon him, and he thought well to cling to his Melmotte.&nbsp; Mr
Samuel Cohenlupe also went, not having taken a very distinguished
part in the entertainment.&nbsp; Then the young men were left alone,
and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the
cardroom.&nbsp; It had been rather hoped that Fisker would go with
the elders.&nbsp; Nidderdale, who did not understand much about the
races of mankind, had his doubts whether the American gentleman might
not be a "Heathen Chinee," such as he had read of in poetry.&nbsp;
But Mr Fisker liked to have his amusement as well as did the others,
and went up resolutely into the cardroom.&nbsp; Here they were joined
by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly at work, having chosen loo
as their game.&nbsp; Mr Fisker made an allusion to poker as a
desirable pastime, but Lord Nidderdale, remembering his poetry, shook
his head.&nbsp; "Oh! bother," he said, "let's have some game that
Christians play."&nbsp; Mr Fisker declared himself ready for any
game,&mdash;irrespective of religious prejudices.

<p>It must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone
on with very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix
Carbury kept his luck.&nbsp; There had of course been vicissitudes,
but his star had been in the ascendant.&nbsp; For some nights
together this had been so continual that Mr Miles Grendall had
suggested to his friend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul
play.&nbsp; Lord Grasslough, who had not many good gifts, was, at
least, not suspicious, and repudiated the idea.&nbsp; "We'll keep an
eye on him," Miles Grendall had said.&nbsp; "You may do as you like,
but I'm not going to watch any one," Grasslough had replied.&nbsp;
Miles "had watched," and had watched in vain, and it may as well be
said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not as yet a
blackleg.&nbsp; Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of
money, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present on this
occasion.&nbsp; Latterly very little ready money had passed
hands,&mdash;very little in proportion to the sums which had been written
down on paper,&mdash;though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to
feel himself justified in repudiating any caution that his mother
might give him.

<p>When I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company
as that now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very
disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for
San Francisco on the following morning.&nbsp; If it could be arranged
that the stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be
regarded as a godsend.&nbsp; Such strangers have ready money in their
pockets, a portion of which would be felt to descend like a soft
shower in a time of drought.&nbsp; When these dealings in unsecured
paper have been going on for a considerable time real bank notes come
to have a loveliness which they never possessed before.&nbsp; But
should the stranger win, then there may arise complications incapable
of any comfortable solution.&nbsp; In such a state of things some
Herr Vossner must be called in, whose terms are apt to be
ruinous.&nbsp; On this occasion things did not arrange themselves
comfortably.&nbsp; From the very commencement Fisker won, and quite a
budget of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were
passed to him from the hands of Sir Felix,&mdash;bearing, however, a "G"
intended to stand for Grasslough, or an "N" for Nidderdale, or a
wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D.
L.,&mdash;or Dolly Longestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on
the occasion.

<p>Then there was the M.G. of Miles Grendall, which was a species of
paper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercial
occasions.&nbsp; Paul Montague hitherto had never given an I.O.U. at
the Beargarden,&mdash;nor of late had our friend Sir Felix.&nbsp; On the
present occasion Montague won, though not heavily.&nbsp; Sir Felix
lost continually, and was almost the only loser.&nbsp; But Mr Fisker
won nearly all that was lost.&nbsp; He was to start for Liverpool by
train at 8.30 a.m., and at 6 a.m., he counted up his bits of paper
and found himself the winner of about &pound;600.&nbsp; "I think that most
of them came from you, Sir Felix," he said,&mdash;handing the bundle
across the table.

<p>"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other
fellows."&nbsp; Then Fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted
one from the mass which indicated Dolly Longestaffe's indebtedness to
the amount of &pound;50.&nbsp; "That's Longestaffe," said Felix, "and I'll
change that of course."&nbsp; Then out of his pocket-book he
extracted other minute documents bearing that M.G. which was so
little esteemed among them,&mdash;and so made up the sum.&nbsp; "You seem
to have &pound;150 from Grasslough, &pound;145 from Nidderdale, and &pound;322 10s from
Grendall," said the baronet.&nbsp; Then Sir Felix got up as though he
had paid his score.&nbsp; Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged
the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the
company.

<p>"This won't do, you know," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "Mr Fisker must
have his money before he leaves.&nbsp; You've got it, Carbury."

<p>"Of course he has," said Grasslough.

<p>"As it happens, I have not," said Sir Felix,&mdash;"but what if I had?"

<p>"Mr Fisker starts for New York immediately," said Lord
Nidderdale.&nbsp; "I suppose we can muster &pound;600 among us.&nbsp; Ring
the bell for Vossner.&nbsp; I think Carbury ought to pay the money as
he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in
this way."

<p>"Lord Nidderdale," said Sir Felix, "I have already said that I
have not got the money about me.&nbsp; Why should I have it more than
you, especially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet
anything I could lose when I sat down?"

<p>"Mr Fisker must have his money at any rate," said Lord Nidderdale,
ringing the bell again.

<p>"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the American.&nbsp;
"Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord."&nbsp; And so he
got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.

<p>But the two young lords would not agree to this.&nbsp; "If you
must go this very minute I'll meet you at the train with the money,"
said Nidderdale.&nbsp; Fisker begged that no such trouble should be
taken.&nbsp; Of course he would wait ten minutes if they
wished.&nbsp; But the affair was one of no consequence.&nbsp; Wasn't
the post running every day?&nbsp; Then Herr Vossner came from his
bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference
in a corner between him, the two lords, and Mr Grendall.&nbsp; In a
very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due by
the lords, but he was afraid that he had not money at his banker's
sufficient for the greater claim.&nbsp; It was well understood that
Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr Grendall unless others
would pledge themselves for the amount.

<p>"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America," said Miles
Grendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in
the same boat with the lords.

<p>"Just so.&nbsp; My partner, Montague, will tell you the
address."&nbsp; Then bustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of
Paul, shaking hands with them all round, and looking as though he
cared nothing for the money, he took his leave.&nbsp; "One cheer for
the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway," he, said as he went
out of the room.&nbsp; Not one there had liked Fisker.&nbsp; His
manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their
waistcoats.&nbsp; He smoked his cigar after a fashion different from
theirs, and spat upon the carpet.&nbsp; He said "my lord" too often,
and grated their prejudices equally whether he treated them with
familiarity or deference.&nbsp; But he had behaved well about the
money, and they felt that they were behaving badly.&nbsp; Sir Felix
was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was
not entitled to pay a stranger with documents which, by tacit
contract, were held to be good among themselves.&nbsp; But there was
no use now in going back to that. Something must be done.

<p>"Vossner must get the money," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "Let's have
him up again."

<p>"I don't think it's my fault," said Miles.&nbsp; "Of course no one
thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way."

<p>"Why shouldn't you be called upon?" said Carbury.&nbsp; "You
acknowledge that you owe the money."

<p>"I think Carbury ought to have paid it," said Grasslough.

<p>"Grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are
never worth much.&nbsp; Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be
playing among us?&nbsp; Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay
if you had lost it?&nbsp; I don't always walk about with six hundred
pounds in my pocket;&mdash;nor do you!"

<p>"It's no good jawing," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "let's get the
money."&nbsp; Then Montague offered to undertake the debt himself,
saying that there were money transactions between him and his
partner.&nbsp; But this could not be allowed.&nbsp; He had only
lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing in I.O.U.'s, and
was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for
the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall.&nbsp; He, the impecunious
one,&mdash;the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute want of
credit,&mdash;sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache.

<p>There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two
lords, in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document
by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner &pound;450 at the
end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir
Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German
produced &pound;322 10s. in notes and gold.&nbsp; This had taken some
considerable time.&nbsp; Then a cup of tea was prepared and
swallowed; after which Nidderdale, with Montague, started off to meet
Fisker at the railway station.&nbsp; "It'll only be a trifle over
&pound;100 each," said Nidderdale, in the cab.

<p>"Won't Mr Grendall pay it?"

<p>"Oh, dear no.&nbsp; How the devil should he?"

<p>"Then he shouldn't play."

<p>"That'd be hard, on him, poor fellow.&nbsp; If you went to his
uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it.&nbsp; Or Buntingford
might put it right for you.&nbsp; Perhaps he might win, you know,
some day, and then he'd make it square.&nbsp; He'd be fair enough if
he had it.&nbsp; Poor Miles!"

<p>They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and
greatcoats with silk linings.&nbsp; "We've brought you the tin," said
Nidderdale, accosting him on the platform.

<p>"Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble
about such a trifle."

<p>"A man should always have his money when he wins."

<p>"We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my
lord."

<p>"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say.&nbsp; Here we pay up
when we can.&nbsp; Sometimes we can't, and then it is not
pleasant."&nbsp; Fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and
between the American and the lord,&mdash;and then Fisker was taken off on
his way towards Frisco.

<p>"He's not half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an
Englishman," said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="11"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XI.&nbsp; Lady Carbury at Home</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very
mixed depression and elevation.&nbsp; Her great work had come
out,&mdash;the "Criminal Queens,"&mdash;and had been very widely
reviewed.&nbsp; In this matter it had been by no means all pleasure,
inasmuch as many very hard words had been said of her.&nbsp; In spite
of the dear friendship between herself and Mr Alf, one of Mr Alf's
most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had
pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity.&nbsp; One would have
thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such
protracted attention.&nbsp; Error after error was laid bare with
merciless prolixity.&nbsp; No doubt the writer of the article must
have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the
various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which
had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in
all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old.&nbsp; The
writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself,
having been fully provided with books of reference, and having
learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment's
notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders
without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper
has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the
coal-cellar.&nbsp; He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient
lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance
intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided
with him always.&nbsp; He must have been a man of vast and varied
erudition, and his name was Jones.&nbsp; The world knew him not, but
his erudition was always there at the command of Mr Alf,&mdash;and his
cruelty.&nbsp; The greatness of Mr Alf consisted in this, that he
always had a Mr Jones or two ready to do his work for him.&nbsp; It
was a great business, this of Mr Alf's, for he had his Jones also for
philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for
history, and one special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very
well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan
drama.

<p>There is the review intended to sell a book,&mdash;which comes out
immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it;
the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and
which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out
quietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single
peg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to
make an author, and the review which is to crush him.&nbsp; An
exuberant Jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he
would crush a man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to
declare that he has accomplished the deed.&nbsp; Of all reviews, the
crushing review is the most popular, as being the most
readable.&nbsp; When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has
been actually crushed,&mdash;been positively driven over by an entire
Juggernaut's car of criticism till his literary body be a mere
amorphous mass,&mdash;then a real success has been achieved, and the Alf
of the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poor
Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective.&nbsp; Such a review
will not make all the world call for the "Evening Pulpit", but it
will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their
bargain.&nbsp; Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to
slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish
their Alf to add a little power to the crushing department.

<p>Lady Carbury had been crushed by the "Evening Pulpit."&nbsp; We
may fancy that it was easy work, and that Mr Alf's historical Mr
Jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books
of reference.&nbsp; The errors did lie a little near the surface; and
the whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by
pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in
Mr Jones's very best manner.&nbsp; But the poor authoress, though
utterly crushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an
hour or two, was not destroyed.&nbsp; On the following morning she
went to her publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the
senior partner, Mr Leadham.&nbsp; "I've got it all in black and
white," she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, "and can
prove him to be wrong.&nbsp; It was in 1522 that the man first came
to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that.&nbsp; I
got it all out of the 'Biographie Universelle.'&nbsp; I'll write to
Mr Alf myself,&mdash;a letter to be published, you know."

<p>"Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury."

<p>"I can prove that I'm right."

<p>"And they can prove that you're wrong."

<p>"I've got all the facts&mdash;and the figures."

<p>Mr Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures,&mdash;had no
opinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but
he knew very well that the "Evening Pulpit" would surely get the
better of any mere author in such a contention.&nbsp; "Never fight
the newspapers, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; Who ever yet got any satisfaction
by that kind of thing?&nbsp; It's their business, and you are not
used to it."

<p>"And Mr Alf my particular friend!&nbsp; It does seem so hard,"
said Lady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.

<p>"It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury."

<p>"It'll stop the sale?"

<p>"Not much.&nbsp; A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very
long, you know.&nbsp; The 'Breakfast Table' gave it an excellent
lift, and came just at the right time.&nbsp; I rather like the notice
in the 'Pulpit,' myself."

<p>"Like it!" said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of
her self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut's
car-wheels.

<p>"Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; A great
many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry
away nothing as to the purport of the review.&nbsp; It's a very good
advertisement."

<p>"But to be told that I have got to learn the A B C of history
after working as I have worked!"

<p>"That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury."

<p>"You think the book has done pretty well?"

<p>"Pretty well;&mdash;just about what we hoped, you know."

<p>"There'll be something coming to me, Mr Leadham?"

<p>Mr Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran
up a few figures, and then scratched his head.&nbsp; There would be
something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very
much.&nbsp; It did not often happen that a great deal could be made
by a first book.&nbsp; Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the
publisher's shop, did carry a cheque with her.&nbsp; She was smartly
dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on Mr Leadham.&nbsp; Mr
Leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written&mdash;a small cheque.

<p>Mr Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr Broune, of
the "Breakfast Table" and Mr Booker of the "Literary Chronicle" had
been true to her interests.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had, as she promised,
"done" Mr Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast
Table."&nbsp; That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking
into Mr Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr Broune's
sleeve, and suggesting to Mr Broune that no one understood her so
well as he did, to bedaub Mr Booker's very thoughtful book in a very
thoughtless fashion,&mdash;and to be paid for her work.&nbsp; What had
been said about his work in the "Breakfast Table" had been very
distasteful to poor Mr Booker.&nbsp; It grieved his inner
contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon
him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the
rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to
which he had unfortunately become accustomed.&nbsp; So Mr Booker
himself wrote the article on the "Criminal Queens" in the "Literary
Chronicle," knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish.&nbsp;
"Remarkable vivacity."&nbsp; "Power of delineating character."&nbsp;
"Excellent choice of subject."&nbsp; "Considerable intimacy with the
historical details of various periods."&nbsp; "The literary world
would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again."&nbsp; The composition
of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed
altogether perhaps an hour of Mr Booker's time.&nbsp; He made no
attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were
open.&nbsp; He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew
well what he was about.&nbsp; He could have reviewed such a book when
he was three parts asleep.&nbsp; When the work was done he threw down
his pen and uttered a deep sigh.&nbsp; He felt it to be hard upon him
that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to
descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect
that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty
to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of
carrying on his career was open to him.&nbsp; "If I didn't, somebody
else would," he said to himself.

<p>But the review in the "Morning Breakfast Table" was the making of
Lady Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made.&nbsp; Mr Broune saw
the lady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter
of this Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had
been fully performed.&nbsp; Two whole columns had been devoted to the
work, and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture
of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady
Carbury's "Criminal Queens."&nbsp; It was the very book that had been
wanted for years.&nbsp; It was a work of infinite research and
brilliant imagination combined.&nbsp; There had been no hesitation in
the laying on of the paint.&nbsp; At that last meeting Lady Carbury
had been very soft, very handsome, and very winning; Mr Broune had
given the order with good will, and it had been obeyed in the same
feeling.

<p>Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also
been some elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed to
think that her literary career might yet be a success.&nbsp; Mr
Leadham's cheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably
lead the way to something better.&nbsp; People at any rate were
talking about her, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally
full.&nbsp; But her literary life, and her literary successes, her
flirtations with Mr Broune, her business with Mr Booker, and her
crushing by Mr Alf's Mr Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that
real inner life of hers of which the absorbing interest was her
son.&nbsp; And with regard to him too she was partly depressed, and
partly elated, allowing her hopes however to dominate her
fears.&nbsp; There was very much to frighten her.&nbsp; Even the
moderate reform in the young man's expenses which had been effected
under dire necessity had been of late abandoned.&nbsp; Though he
never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month
of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day.&nbsp; She knew,
too, that he had a horse up in town.&nbsp; She never saw him but once
in the day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware
that he was always at his club throughout the night.&nbsp; She knew
that he was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes
the most dangerous.&nbsp; But she knew that he had ready money for
his immediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were
gifted with a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to
trouble her in Welbeck Street.&nbsp; For the present, therefore, she
consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was
successful.&nbsp; But her elation sprang from a higher source than
this.&nbsp; From all that she could hear, she thought it likely that
Felix would carry off the great prize; and then,&mdash;should he do
that,&mdash;what a blessed son would he have been to her!&nbsp; How
constantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices,
his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment of
herself!&nbsp; As she thought of it the bliss seemed to be too great
for the possibility of realisation.&nbsp; She was taught to
understand that &pound;10,000 a year, to begin with, would be the least of
it; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make
Sir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England.&nbsp; In her very
heart of hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather
than for herself.&nbsp; Then her mind ran away to baronies and
earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose
faults had already nearly engulfed her in his own ruin.

<p>And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much,
though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd.&nbsp; She had
discovered that her son had become a Director of the South Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway Company.&nbsp; She must have known,&mdash;she
certainly did know,&mdash;that Felix, such as he was, could not lend
assistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the
world.&nbsp; She was aware that there was some reason for such a
choice hidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a
falsehood.&nbsp; A ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of
whose life since he had been left to go alone had been loaded with
vice and folly,&mdash;whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in
regarding him as one incapable of knowing what principle is,&mdash;of what
service could he be, that he should be made a Director?&nbsp; But
Lady Carbury, though she knew that he could be of no service, was not
at all shocked.&nbsp; She was now able to speak up a little for her
boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to Roger
Carbury.&nbsp; And her son sat at the same Board with Mr
Melmotte!&nbsp; What an indication was this of coming triumphs!

<p>Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the
morning of Saturday 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at
about seven in the morning.&nbsp; All that day his mother was unable
to see him.&nbsp; She found him asleep in his room at noon and again
at two; and when she sought him again he had flown.&nbsp; But on the
Sunday she caught him.&nbsp; "I hope," she said, "you'll stay at home
on Tuesday evening."&nbsp; Hitherto she had never succeeded in
inducing him to grace her evening parties by his presence.

<p>"All your people are coming!&nbsp; You know, mother, it is such an
awful bore."

<p>"Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here."

<p>"One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own
house.&nbsp; Everybody sees that it has been contrived.&nbsp; And it
is such a pokey, stuffy little place!"

<p>Then Lady Carbury spoke out her mind.&nbsp; "Felix, I think you
must be a fool.&nbsp; I have given over ever expecting that you would
do anything to please me.&nbsp; I sacrifice everything for you and I
do not even hope for a return.&nbsp; But when I am doing everything
to advance your own interests, when I am working night and day to
rescue you from ruin, I think you might at any rate help a
little,&mdash;not for me of course, but for yourself."

<p>"I don't know what you mean by working day and night.&nbsp; I
don't want you to work day and night."

<p>"There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of
this girl, and you have chances that none of them have.&nbsp; I am
told they are going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to
meet Lord Nidderdale down in the country."

<p>"She can't endure Nidderdale.&nbsp; She says so herself."

<p>"She will do as she is told,&mdash;unless she can be made to be
downright in love with some one like yourself.&nbsp; Why not ask her
at once on Tuesday?"

<p>"If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion.&nbsp;
I'm not going to be driven."

<p>"Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her
when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that
you really love her."

<p>"Love her! what a bother there is about loving!&nbsp; Well;&mdash;I'll
look in.&nbsp; What time do the animals come to feed?"

<p>"There will be no feeding.&nbsp; Felix, you are so heartless and
so cruel that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go
your own way and never to speak to you again.&nbsp; My friends will
be here about ten;&mdash;I should say from ten till twelve.&nbsp; I think
you should be here to receive her, not later than ten."

<p>"If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will
come."

<p>When the Tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive to
get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar
smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present
himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past
ten.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there,&mdash;and
many others, of whom the majority were devoted to literature.&nbsp;
Among them Mr Alf was in the room, and was at this very moment
discussing Lady Carbury's book with Mr Booker.&nbsp; He had been
quite graciously received, as though he had not authorised the
crushing.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had given him her hand with that energy
of affection with which she was wont to welcome her literary friends,
and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into his eyes as she
looked into his face,&mdash;as though asking him how he had found it in
his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected, so
innocent as herself.&nbsp; "I cannot stand this kind of thing," said
Mr Alf, to Mr Booker.&nbsp; "There's a regular system of touting got
abroad, and I mean to trample it down."

<p>"If you're strong enough," said Mr Booker.

<p>"Well, I think I am.&nbsp; I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show
that I'm not afraid to lead the way.&nbsp; I've the greatest possible
regard for our friend here,&mdash;but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly
rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of
established reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always
managed to misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates.&nbsp;
Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her.&nbsp;
I have done the best I could."

<p>Mr Alf knew very well what Mr Booker had done, and Mr Booker was
aware of the extent of Mr Alf's knowledge.&nbsp; "What you say is all
very right," said Mr Booker; "only you want a different kind of world
to live in."

<p>"Just so;&mdash;and therefore we must make it different.&nbsp; I wonder
how our friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared
that the 'Criminal Queens' was the greatest historical work of modern
days."

<p>"I didn't see the notice.&nbsp; There isn't much in the book,
certainly, as far as I have looked at it.&nbsp; I should have said
that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away
upon it.&nbsp; One doesn't want to break a butterfly on the
wheel;&mdash;especially a friendly butterfly."

<p>"As to the friendship, it should be kept separate.&nbsp; That's my
idea," said Mr Alf, moving away.

<p>"I'll never forget what you've done for me,&mdash;never!" said Lady
Carbury, holding Mr Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to
him.

<p>"Nothing more than my duty," said he, smiling.

<p>"I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,"
she replied.&nbsp; Then she let go his hand and moved away to some
other guest.&nbsp; There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had
said.&nbsp; Of enduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was
capable: but at this moment she did feel that Mr Broune had done much
for her, and that she would willingly make him some return of
friendship.&nbsp; Of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the
moment towards flirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a
gentleman who had once acted as though he were her lover, she was
absolutely innocent.&nbsp; She had forgotten that little absurd
episode in their joint lives.&nbsp; She was at any rate too much in
earnest at the present moment to think about it.&nbsp; But it was
otherwise with Mr Broune.&nbsp; He could not quite make up his mind
whether the lady was or was not in love with him,&mdash;or whether, if she
were, it was incumbent on him to indulge her;&mdash;and if so, in what
manner.&nbsp; Then as he looked after her, he told himself that she
was certainly very beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that
her income was certain, and her rank considerable.&nbsp;
Nevertheless, Mr Broune knew of himself that he was not a marrying
man.&nbsp; He had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his
business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how impossible it
was that such a one as Lady Carbury should turn him from his
resolution.

<p>"I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr Alf," Lady Carbury
said to the high-minded editor of the "Evening Pulpit."

<p>"Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?"

<p>"You are very good.&nbsp; But I feared&mdash;"

<p>"Feared what, Lady Carbury?"

<p>"That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to
welcome you after,&mdash;well, after the compliments of last Thursday."

<p>"I never allow the two things to join themselves together.&nbsp;
You see, Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself."

<p>"No indeed.&nbsp; What a bitter creature you would be if you did."

<p>"To tell the truth, I never write any of them.&nbsp; Of course we
endeavour to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in
this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our
critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal
friend of my own, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my
friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that
Mr Alf who has the misfortune to edit a newspaper."

<p>"It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you,"
said Lady Carbury with her sweetest smile.&nbsp; She did not believe
a word that Mr Alf had said to her.&nbsp; She thought, and thought
rightly, that Mr Alf's Mr Jones had taken direct orders from his
editor, as to his treatment of the "Criminal Queens."&nbsp; But she
remembered that she intended to write another book, and that she
might perhaps conquer even Mr Alf by spirit and courage under her
present infliction.

<p>It was Lady Carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things to
everybody.&nbsp; And she did her duty.&nbsp; But in the midst of it
all she was ever thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did
at last venture to separate the girl from her mother.&nbsp; Marie
herself was not unwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix.&nbsp; He had
never bullied her, had never seemed to scorn her; and then he was so
beautiful!&nbsp; She, poor girl, bewildered among various suitors,
utterly confused by the life to which she was introduced, troubled by
fitful attacks of admonition from her father, who would again,
fitfully, leave her unnoticed for a week at a time; with no trust in
her pseudo-mother&mdash;for poor Marie, had in truth been born before her
father had been a married man, and had never known what was her own
mother's fate,&mdash;with no enjoyment in her present life, had come
solely to this conclusion, that it would be well for her to be taken
away somewhere by somebody.&nbsp; Many a varied phase of life had
already come in her way.&nbsp; She could just remember the dirty
street in the German portion of New York in which she had been born
and had lived for the first four years of her life, and could
remember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been her
mother.&nbsp; She could remember being at sea, and her sickness,&mdash;but
could not quite remember whether that woman had been with her.&nbsp;
Then she had run about the streets of Hamburg, and had sometimes been
very hungry, sometimes in rags,&mdash;and she had a dim memory of some
trouble into which her father had fallen, and that he was away from
her for a time.&nbsp; She had up to the present splendid moment her
own convictions about that absence, but she had never mentioned them
to a human being.&nbsp; Then her father had married her present
mother in Frankfort.&nbsp; That she could remember distinctly, as
also the rooms in which she was then taken to live, and the fact that
she was told that from henceforth she was to be a Jewess.&nbsp; But
there had soon come another change.&nbsp; They went from Frankfort to
Paris, and there they were all Christians.&nbsp; From that time they
had lived in various apartments in the French capital, but had always
lived well.&nbsp; Sometimes there had been a carriage, sometimes
there had been none.&nbsp; And then there came a time in which she
was grown woman enough to understand that her father was being much
talked about.&nbsp; Her father to her had always been alternately
capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel, but, just at
this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife.&nbsp; And
Madame Melmotte would weep at times and declare that they were all
ruined.&nbsp; Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour
at Paris.&nbsp; There was an hotel, with carriages and horses almost
unnumbered;&mdash;and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark,
swarthy, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously; but there were
few women.&nbsp; At this time Marie was hardly nineteen, and young
enough in manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen.&nbsp;
Suddenly again she was told that she was to be taken to London, and
the migration had been effected with magnificence.&nbsp; She was
first taken to Brighton, where the half of an hotel had been hired,
and had then been brought to Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown
into the matrimonial market.&nbsp; No part of her life had been more
disagreeable to her, more frightful, than the first months in which
she had been trafficked for by the Nidderdales and Grassloughs.&nbsp;
She had been too frightened, too much of a coward to object to
anything proposed to her, but still had been conscious of a desire to
have some hand in her own future destiny.&nbsp; Luckily for her, the
first attempts at trafficking with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs
had come to nothing; and at length she was picking up a little
courage, and was beginning to feel that it might be possible to
prevent a disposition of herself which did not suit her own
tastes.&nbsp; She was also beginning to think that there might be a
disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes.

<p>Felix Carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was
seated on a chair close to him.&nbsp; "I love you better than anyone
in the world," he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear,
perhaps indifferent as to the hearing of others.

<p>"Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that."

<p>"You knew that before.&nbsp; Now I want you to say whether you
will be my wife."

<p>"How can I answer that myself?&nbsp; Papa settles everything."

<p>"May I go to papa?"

<p>"You may if you like," she replied in a very low whisper.&nbsp; It
was thus that the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress
of any day if people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without
a penny.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="12"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XII.&nbsp; Sir Felix in His Mother's House</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her
son,&mdash;not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his
nightly attendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope
that he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of
his fortune.&nbsp; She had watched the whispering, had noticed the
cool effrontery with which Felix had spoken,&mdash;for without hearing the
words she had almost known the very moment in which he was
asking,&mdash;and had seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the
ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied.&nbsp;
As a woman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed,
who had at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her
son's manner.&nbsp; But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl
would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great
Melmotte would accept in return for his money a title so modest as
that of her son, how glorious should her son be to her in spite of
his indifference!

<p>"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went," said
Henrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom.

<p>"He might have stayed to-night.&nbsp; Do you think he asked her?"

<p>"How can I say, mamma?"

<p>"I should have thought you would have been anxious about your
brother.&nbsp; I feel sure he did,&mdash;and that she accepted him."

<p>"If so I hope he will be good to her.&nbsp; I hope he loves her."

<p>"Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else?&nbsp; A girl
need not be odious because she has money.&nbsp; There is nothing
disagreeable about her."

<p>"No,&mdash;nothing disagreeable.&nbsp; I do not know that she is
especially attractive."

<p>"Who is?&nbsp; I don't see anybody specially attractive.&nbsp; It
seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix."

<p>"Do not say that, mamma."

<p>"Yes you are.&nbsp; You don't understand all that he might be with
this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by
marriage.&nbsp; He is eating us both up."

<p>"I wouldn't let him do that, mamma."

<p>"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart.&nbsp; I
love him.&nbsp; I could not see him starve.&nbsp; Think what he might
be with &pound;20,000 a-year!"

<p>"If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be
happy."

<p>"You had better go to bed, Henrietta.&nbsp; You never say a word
to comfort me in all my troubles."

<p>Then Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury absolutely sat up the
whole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear his
tidings.&nbsp; She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her
finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown.&nbsp; As she
sat opposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of
false hair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on
her.&nbsp; She could hide the unwelcome approach by art,&mdash;hide it
more completely than can most women of her age; but, there it was,
stealing on her with short grey hairs over her ears and around her
temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by
objectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth
which could only be removed by that self-assertion of herself which
practice had made always possible to her in company, though it now so
frequently deserted her when she was alone.

<p>But she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing
old.&nbsp; Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the
future,&mdash;never reached but always coming.&nbsp; She, however, had not
looked for happiness to love and loveliness, and need not therefore
be disappointed on that score.&nbsp; She had never really determined
what it was that might make her happy,&mdash;having some hazy aspiration
after social distinction and literary fame, in which was ever
commingled solicitude respecting money.&nbsp; But at the present
moment her great fears and her great hopes were centred on her
son.&nbsp; She would not care how grey might be her hair, or how
savage might be Mr Alf, if her Felix were to marry this
heiress.&nbsp; On the other hand, nothing that pearl-powder or the
"Morning Breakfast Table" could do would avail anything, unless he
could be extricated from the ruin that now surrounded him.&nbsp; So
she went down into the dining-room, that she might be sure to hear
the key in the door, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a
volume of French memoirs in her hand.

<p>Unfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been duly
called about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full
staring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him to
the door.&nbsp; The night had been very wretched to her.&nbsp; She
had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to
become again comfortable.&nbsp; She could not keep her mind to her
book, and while she was awake the time seemed to be
everlasting.&nbsp; And then it was so terrible to her that he should
be gambling at such hours as these!&nbsp; Why should he desire to
gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands?&nbsp;
Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money
which at this moment of time might be so indispensable to his great
project, for the chance of winning something which in comparison with
Marie Melmotte's money must be despicable!&nbsp; But at last he
came!&nbsp; She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and
coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door.&nbsp; She had
studied her part for the occasion.&nbsp; She would not say a harsh
word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile.&nbsp;
"Mother," he said, "you up at this hour!"&nbsp; His face was flushed,
and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait.&nbsp;
She had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her
if such should be his condition.

<p>"I could not go to bed till I had seen you."

<p>"Why not? why should you want to see me?&nbsp; I'll go to bed
now.&nbsp; There'll be plenty of time by-and-by."

<p>"Is anything the matter, Felix?"

<p>"Matter,&mdash;what should be the matter?&nbsp; There's been a gentle
row among the fellows at the club;&mdash;that's all.&nbsp; I had to tell
Grasslough a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it.&nbsp; I didn't
mean that he should."

<p>"There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?"

<p>"What, duelling; oh no,&mdash;nothing so exciting as that.&nbsp;
Whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say
at present.&nbsp; You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used
up."

<p>"What did Marie Melmotte say to you?"

<p>"Nothing particular."&nbsp; And he stood with his hand on the door
as he answered her.

<p>"And what did you say to her?"

<p>"Nothing particular.&nbsp; Good heavens, mother, do you think that
a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight
o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?"

<p>"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a
word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and
looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes.&nbsp; She was sure
that he had been drinking.&nbsp; She could smell it in his breath.

<p>"I must go to the old fellow, of course."

<p>"She told you to go to her father?"

<p>"As far as I remember, that was about it.&nbsp; Of course, he
means to settle it as he likes.&nbsp; I should say that it's ten to
one against me."&nbsp; Pulling himself away with some little
roughness from his mother's hold, he made his way up to his own
bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs.

<p>Then the heiress herself had accepted her son!&nbsp; If so, surely
the thing might be done.&nbsp; Lady Carbury recalled to mind her old
conviction that a daughter may always succeed in beating a
hard-hearted parent in a contention about marriage, if she be well in
earnest.&nbsp; But then the girl must be really in earnest, and her
earnestness will depend on that of her lover.&nbsp; In this case,
however, there was as yet no reason for supposing that the great man
would object.&nbsp; As far as outward signs went, the great man had
shown some partiality for her son.&nbsp; No doubt it was Mr Melmotte
who had made Sir Felix a director of the great American
Company.&nbsp; Felix had also been kindly received in Grosvenor
Square.&nbsp; And then Sir Felix was Sir Felix,&mdash;a real
baronet.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte had no doubt endeavoured to catch this and
that lord; but, failing a lord, why should he not content himself
with a baronet?&nbsp; Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted
nothing but money to make him an acceptable suitor to such a
father-in-law as Mr Melmotte;&mdash;not money in the funds, not a real
fortune, not so many thousands a-year that could be settled;&mdash;the
man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary but such a one
as Mr Melmotte would not like outward palpable signs of immediate
poverty.&nbsp; There should be means enough for present sleekness and
present luxury.&nbsp; He must have a horse to ride, and rings and
coats to wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the
means of making presents.&nbsp; He must not be seen to be poor.&nbsp;
Fortunately, most fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and
had given him some ready money.&nbsp; But if he went on gambling
Chance would certainly take it all away again.&nbsp; For aught that
the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so already.&nbsp; And
then again, it was indispensable that he should abandon the habit of
play&mdash;at any rate for the present, while his prospects depended on
the good opinions of Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; Of course such a one as Mr
Melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however much he might
approve of it in the City.&nbsp; Why, with such a preceptor to help
him, should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or
among the brokers, or in the purlieus of the Bank?&nbsp; Lady Carbury
would at any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as
director of the Great Mexican Railway,&mdash;which position ought to be
the beginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own
account.&nbsp; But what hope could there be for him if he should take
to drink?&nbsp; Would not all hopes be over with Mr Melmotte should
he ever learn that his daughter's lover reached home and tumbled
upstairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning?

<p>She watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at
once on the subject.

<p>"Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger
for Whitsuntide."

<p>"To Carbury Manor!" said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which
the cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast.&nbsp;
"I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any
more."

<p>"I never said so, Felix.&nbsp; And now I have a great object."

<p>"What will Hetta do?"

<p>"Go too&mdash;why shouldn't she?"

<p>"Oh; I didn't know.&nbsp; I thought that perhaps she mightn't like
it."

<p>"I don't see why she shouldn't like it.&nbsp; Besides, everything
can't give way to her."

<p>"Has Roger asked you?"

<p>"No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we
should all go."

<p>"Not me, mother!"

<p>"Yes; you especially."

<p>"Not if I know it, mother.&nbsp; What on earth should I do at
Carbury Manor?"

<p>"Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down
to Caversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes.&nbsp;
She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend."

<p>"Oh&mdash;h! that explains it all."

<p>"Explains what, Felix?" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly
Longestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visit
to Caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that
delightful young heir.

<p>"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's
affairs, and means to put them straight.&nbsp; There's an old
property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte
is to have that himself.&nbsp; There's some bother because Dolly, who
would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in
selling.&nbsp; So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!"

<p>"Madame Melmotte told me so."

<p>"And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England."

<p>"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are
there.&nbsp; What can be more natural?&nbsp; Everybody goes out of
town at Whitsuntide; and why shouldn't we run down to the family
place?"

<p>"All very natural if you can manage it, mother."

<p>"And you'll come?"

<p>"If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and
night," said Felix.

<p>His mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously
made.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="13"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XIII.&nbsp; The Longestaffes</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and
of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for
the best part of an hour with Mr Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had there
discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room
with a very dissatisfied air.&nbsp; There are men,&mdash;and old men too,
who ought to know the world,&mdash;who think that if they can only find
the proper Medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their
ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh
and new and unembarrassed.&nbsp; These great conjurors are generally
sought for in the City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling
though the result of the process is seldom absolute
rejuvenescence.&nbsp; No greater Medea than Mr Melmotte had ever been
potent in money matters, and Mr Longestaffe had been taught to
believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his
affairs everything would be made right for him.&nbsp; But the
necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be
created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any
cauldron.&nbsp; He, Mr Melmotte, could put Mr Longestaffe in the way
of realising property without delay, of changing it from one shape
into another, or could find out the real market value of the property
in question; but he could create nothing.&nbsp; "You have only a life
interest, Mr Longestaffe."

<p>"No; only a life interest.&nbsp; That is customary with family
estates in this country, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Just so.&nbsp; And therefore you can dispose of nothing
else.&nbsp; Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could
sell either one estate or the other."

<p>"There is no question of selling Caversham, sir.&nbsp; Lady Pomona
and I reside there."

<p>"Your son will not join you in selling the other place?"

<p>"I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that
I wish.&nbsp; I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease
for my life."

<p>"I think not, Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; My wife would not like the
uncertainty."

<p>Then Mr Longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outraged
aristocratic pride.&nbsp; His own lawyer would almost have done as
much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest
to Caversham,&mdash;and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and
daughter.&nbsp; He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand
pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's
head clerk was to arrange, and this had been effected simply on the
security of the lease of a house in town.&nbsp; There had been an
ease in this, an absence of that delay which generally took place
between the expression of his desire for money and the acquisition of
it,&mdash;and this had gratified him.&nbsp; But he was already beginning
to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification.&nbsp;
At the present moment, too, Mr Melmotte was odious to him for another
reason.&nbsp; He had condescended to ask Mr Melmotte to make him a
director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and
he,&mdash;Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham,&mdash;had had his request
refused!&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe had condescended very low.&nbsp; "You
have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!" he had said in a complaining
tone.&nbsp; Then Mr Melmotte explained that Lord Alfred possessed
peculiar aptitudes for the position.&nbsp; "I'm sure I could do
anything that he does," said Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; Upon this Mr
Melmotte, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness,
replied that the number of directors required was completed.&nbsp;
Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr Melmotte was beginning
to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a
commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.

<p>Mr Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and
whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care,
though they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought
very much of his personal appearance.&nbsp; It was not that he
considered himself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his
aristocratic bearing.&nbsp; He entertained an idea that all who
understood the matter would perceive at a single glance that he was a
gentleman of the first water, and a man of fashion.&nbsp; He was
intensely proud of his position in life, thinking himself to be
immensely superior to all those who earned their bread.&nbsp; There
were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the English
gentleman of gentlemen was he who had land, and family title-deeds,
and an old family place, and family portraits, and family
embarrassments, and a family absence of any usual employment.&nbsp;
He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of
much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having
stood and been beaten three or four times for his county, he was of
opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark of bad
breeding.&nbsp; He was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it
behoved him to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a
certain nobility of feeling.&nbsp; There was very little that his
position called upon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him
to do.&nbsp; It was not allowed to him to be close in money
matters.&nbsp; He could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid till the
men were clamorous, but he could not question the items in their
accounts.&nbsp; He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could
not make inquiry as to the consumption of his wines in the servants'
hall.&nbsp; He had no pity for his tenants in regard to game, but he
hesitated much as to raising their rent.&nbsp; He had his theory of
life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly
brought satisfaction to himself or to his family.

<p>At the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to
sell the smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the
other.&nbsp; The debt had not been altogether of his own making, and
the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as
himself.&nbsp; It would also serve his son, who was blessed with a
third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with
debt.&nbsp; The father could not bear to be refused; and he feared
that his son would decline.&nbsp; "But Adolphus wants money as much
as any one," Lady Pomona had said.&nbsp; He had shaken his head, and
pished and pshawed.&nbsp; Women never could understand anything about
money.&nbsp; Now he walked down sadly from Mr Melmotte's office and
was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's chambers in Lincoln's
Inn.&nbsp; Even for the accommodation of those few thousand pounds he
was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of
his house in town must be given up.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe felt that
the world in general was very hard on him.

<p>"What on earth are we to do with them?" said Sophia, the eldest
Miss Longestaffe, to her mother.

<p>"I do think it's a shame of papa," said Georgiana, the second
daughter.&nbsp; "I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain
them."

<p>"Of course you will leave them all on my hands," said Lady Pomona
wearily.

<p>"But what's the use of having them?" urged Sophia.&nbsp; "I can
understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody
else goes.&nbsp; One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them
afterwards.&nbsp; As to the girl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her
if I were to see her."

<p>"It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her," said Lady
Pomona.

<p>"Dolly will never marry anybody," said Georgiana.&nbsp; "The idea
of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him!&nbsp;
Besides, he won't come down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring
him.&nbsp; If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless."

<p>"Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?" asked Sophia.

<p>"Because everybody wants money," said Lady Pomona.&nbsp; "I'm sure
I don't know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never
is any money for anything, I don't spend it."

<p>"I don't think that we do anything out of the way," said
Sophia.&nbsp; "I haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is;
but if we're to live at all, I don't know how we are to make a
change."

<p>"It's always been like this ever since I can remember," said
Georgiana, "and I don't mean to worry about it any more.&nbsp; I
suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know
it."

<p>"But, my dears&mdash;when we are obliged to have such people as these
Melmottes!"

<p>"As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would.&nbsp; I
shan't trouble myself about them, I suppose it will only be for two
days."

<p>"My dear, they're coming for a week!"

<p>"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all.&nbsp; I
never did hear of anything so absurd.&nbsp; What good can they do
papa by being down there?"

<p>"He is wonderfully rich," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued
Georgiana.&nbsp; "Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I
think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve.&nbsp;
If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad
for a year?&nbsp; The Sidney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had
quite a nice time of it in Florence.&nbsp; It was there that Clara
Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey.&nbsp; I shouldn't at all mind that
kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of
people brought down upon us at Caversham.&nbsp; No one knows who they
are, or where they came from, or what they'll turn to."&nbsp; So
spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes was supposed to have the
strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue.

<p>This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the
Longestaffes' family town-house in Bruton Street.&nbsp; It was not by
any means a charming house, having but few of those luxuries and
elegancies which have been added of late years to newly-built London
residences.&nbsp; It was gloomy and inconvenient, with large
drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for
servants.&nbsp; But it was the old family town-house, having been
inhabited by three or four generations of Longestaffes, and did not
savour of that radical newness which prevails, and which was
peculiarly distasteful to Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; Queen's Gate and the
quarters around were, according to Mr Longestaffe, devoted to opulent
tradesmen.&nbsp; Even Belgrave Square, though its aristocratic
properties must be admitted, still smelt of the mortar.&nbsp; Many of
those living there and thereabouts had never possessed in their
families real family town-houses.&nbsp; The old streets lying between
Piccadilly and Oxford Street, one or two well-known localities to the
south and north of these boundaries, were the proper sites for these
habitations.&nbsp; When Lady Pomona, instigated by some friend of
high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested a change to
Eaton Square, Mr Longestaffe had at once snubbed his wife.&nbsp; If
Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls then they
might remain at Caversham.&nbsp; The threat of remaining at Caversham
had been often made, for Mr Longestaffe, proud as he was of his
town-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expense
of the annual migration.&nbsp; The girls' dresses and the girls'
horses, his wife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull London
dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that
Lady Pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of July,
with more dread than to any other period.&nbsp; It was then that he
began to know what that year's season would cost him.&nbsp; But he
had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the
entire year.&nbsp; The girls, who as yet knew nothing of the
Continent beyond Paris, had signified their willingness to be taken
about Germany and Italy for twelve months, but had shown by every
means in their power that they would mutiny against any intention on
their father's part to keep them at Caversham during the London
season.

<p>Georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the
Melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room.&nbsp; Dolly did
not often show himself in Bruton Street.&nbsp; He had rooms of his
own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family.&nbsp;
His mother wrote to him notes without end,&mdash;notes every day, pressing
invitations of all sorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he
take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to
that evening-party?&nbsp; These Dolly barely read, and never
answered.&nbsp; He would open them, thrust them into some pocket, and
then forget them.&nbsp; Consequently his mother worshipped him; and
even his sisters, who were at any rate superior to him in intellect,
treated him with a certain deference.&nbsp; He could do as he liked,
and they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dulness of
the Longestaffe regime.&nbsp; His freedom was grand to their eyes,
and very enviable, although they were aware that he had already so
used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of his wealth.

<p>"My dear Adolphus," said the mother, "this is so nice of you."

<p>"I think it is rather nice," said Dolly, submitting himself to be
kissed.

<p>"Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?" said Sophia.

<p>"Give him some tea," said his mother.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was always
having tea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for
dinner.

<p>"I'd sooner have soda and brandy," said Dolly.

<p>"My darling boy!"

<p>"I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don't
want it.&nbsp; I only said I'd sooner have it than tea.&nbsp; Where's
the governor?"&nbsp; They all looked at him with wondering
eyes.&nbsp; There must be something going on more than they had
dreamed of, when Dolly asked to see his father.

<p>"Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch," said
Sophia gravely.

<p>"I'll wait a little for him," said Dolly, taking out his watch.

<p>"Do stay and dine with us," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with some
fellow."

<p>"Some fellow!&nbsp; I believe you don't know where you're going,"
said Georgiana.

<p>"My fellow knows.&nbsp; At least he's a fool if he don't."

<p>"Adolphus," began Lady Pomona very seriously, "I've got a plan and
I want you to help me."

<p>"I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother."

<p>"We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and we
particularly want you to come."

<p>"By George! no; I couldn't do that."

<p>"You haven't heard half.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte and her daughter
are coming."

<p>"The d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; they are!" ejaculated Dolly.

<p>"Dolly!" said Sophia, "do remember where you are."

<p>"Yes I will;&mdash;and I'll remember too where I won't be.&nbsp;
I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte."

<p>"My dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that Miss
Melmotte will have twenty thousand a year the day she marries; and
that in all probability her husband will some day be the richest man
in Europe?"

<p>"Half the fellows in London are after her," said Dolly.

<p>"Why shouldn't you be one of them?&nbsp; She isn't going to stay
in the same house with half the fellows in London," suggested
Georgiana.&nbsp; "If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance
which nobody else can have just at present."

<p>"But I haven't any mind to try it.&nbsp; Good gracious me;&mdash;oh
dear! it isn't at all in my way, mother."

<p>"I knew he wouldn't," said Georgiana.

<p>"It would put everything so straight," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them
straight.&nbsp; There's the governor.&nbsp; I heard his voice.&nbsp;
Now for a row."&nbsp; Then Mr Longestaffe entered the room.

<p>"My dear," said Lady Pomona, "here's Adolphus come to see
us."&nbsp; The father nodded his head at his son but said
nothing.&nbsp; "We want him to stay and dine, but he's engaged."

<p>"Though he doesn't know where," said Sophia.

<p>"My fellow knows;&mdash;he keeps a book.&nbsp; I've got a letter, sir,
ever so long, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn.&nbsp; They want me
to come and see you about selling something; so I've come.&nbsp; It's
an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it.&nbsp;
Perhaps there isn't anything to be sold.&nbsp; If so I can go away
again, you know."

<p>"You'd better come with me into the study," said the father.&nbsp;
"We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business."&nbsp;
Then the squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed,
making a woeful grimace at his sisters.&nbsp; The three ladies sat
over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting,&mdash;not the result of
the conference, for with that they did not suppose that they would be
made acquainted,&mdash;but whatever signs of good or evil might be
collected from the manner and appearance of the squire when he should
return to them.&nbsp; Dolly they did not expect to see
again,&mdash;probably for a month.&nbsp; He and the squire never did come
together without quarrelling, and careless as was the young man in
every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to his own
rights in any dealings which he had with his father.&nbsp; At the end
of the half-hour Mr Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at
once pronounced the doom of the family.&nbsp; "My dear," he said, "we
shall not return from Caversham to London this year."&nbsp; He
struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity as he
spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion.

<p>"Papa!" screamed Sophia.

<p>"My dear, you don't mean it," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"Of course papa doesn't mean it," said Georgiana, rising to her
feet.

<p>"I mean it accurately and certainly," said Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp;
"We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from
Caversham to London this year."

<p>"Our ball is fixed," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"Then it must be unfixed."&nbsp; So saying, the master of the
house left the drawing-room and descended to his study.

<p>The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their
opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very
strongly.&nbsp; But the daughters were louder in their anger than was
their mother.

<p>"He can't really mean it," said Sophia.

<p>"He does," said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.

<p>"He must unmean it again;&mdash;that's all," said Georgiana.&nbsp;
"Dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon
us.&nbsp; Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down
before the season has begun?"

<p>"I wonder what Adolphus has said to him.&nbsp; Your papa is always
hard upon Adolphus."

<p>"Dolly can take care of himself," said Georgiana, "and always does
do so.&nbsp; Dolly does not care for us."

<p>"Not a bit," said Sophia.

<p>"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma.&nbsp; You mustn't stir
from this at all.&nbsp; You must give up going to Caversham
altogether, unless he promises to bring us back.&nbsp; I won't
stir;&mdash;unless he has me carried out of the house."

<p>"My dear, I couldn't say that to him."

<p>"Then I will.&nbsp; To go and be buried down in that place for a
whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr
Carbury, who is rustier still.&nbsp; I won't stand it.&nbsp; There
are some sort of things that one ought not to stand.&nbsp; If you go
down I shall stay up with the Primeros.&nbsp; Mrs Primero would have
me I know.&nbsp; It wouldn't be nice of course.&nbsp; I don't like
the Primeros.&nbsp; I hate the Primeros.&nbsp; Oh yes;&mdash;it's quite
true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but not
half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte."

<p>"That's ill-natured, Georgiana.&nbsp; She is not a friend of
mine."

<p>"But you're going to have her down at Caversham.&nbsp; I can't
think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as
you do how hard papa is to manage."

<p>"Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my
dear."

<p>"No, mamma; everybody has not.&nbsp; People understand too well
the trouble of getting up and down for that.&nbsp; The Primeros
aren't going down.&nbsp; I never heard of such a thing in all my
life.&nbsp; What does he expect is to become of us?&nbsp; If he wants
to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go
abroad?&nbsp; Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in
London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all England."

<p>The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very
gay.&nbsp; Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each
other's company.&nbsp; Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed
and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought
forward on that occasion.&nbsp; The two girls were quite silent, and
would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they
answered simply by monosyllables.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was ill, and sat
in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes.&nbsp; To her had been
imparted upstairs the purport of the conversation between Dolly and
his father.&nbsp; Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of
Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him
at once.&nbsp; When it had been explained to him that the sale would
be desirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed from
debt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he replied
that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged
and would be the better for money.&nbsp; The result seemed to be that
Pickering could not be sold;&mdash;and, as a consequence of that, Mr
Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London
expenses that year.

<p>The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed
his head, as was their custom.&nbsp; There was very little show of
affection in the kiss.&nbsp; "You had better remember that what you
have to do in town must be done this week," he said.&nbsp; They heard
the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without
deigning to notice them.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="14"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XIV.&nbsp; Carbury Manor</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"I don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all.&nbsp; Of course
if you have made up your mind to go, I must go with you."

<p>"What on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your
own cousin's house?"

<p>"You know what I mean, mamma."

<p>"It's done now, my dear, and I don't think there is anything at
all in what you say."&nbsp; This little conversation arose from Lady
Carbury's announcement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting
the hospitality of Carbury Manor for the Whitsun week.&nbsp; It was
very grievous to Henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a
man who was in love with her, even though he was her cousin.&nbsp;
But she had no escape.&nbsp; She could not remain in town by herself,
nor could she even allude to her grievance to any one but her
mother.&nbsp; Lady Carbury, in order that she might be quite safe
from opposition, had posted the following letter to her cousin before
she spoke to her daughter:&mdash;
<br>

<blockquote>
<i>
<br>
Welbeck Street, 24th April, 18&mdash;.<br>
<br>
My dear Roger,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what I am going
to propose doesn't suit you'll say so at once.&nbsp; I have been
working very hard,&mdash;too hard indeed, and I feel that nothing will do
me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or
two.&nbsp; Would you take us for a part of Whitsun week?&nbsp; We
would come down on the 20th May and stay over the Sunday if you would
keep us.&nbsp; Felix says he would run down though he would not
trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that
Great American Railway Board as a Director.&nbsp; It opens a new
sphere of life to him, and will enable him to prove that he can make
himself useful.&nbsp; I think it was a great confidence to place in
one so young.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of course you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes
with any of your plans, but you have been so very very kind to us
that I have no scruple in making it.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Henrietta joins with me in kind love.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate cousin,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MATILDA CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>There was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed
Roger Carbury.&nbsp; In the first place he felt that Henrietta should
not be brought to his house.&nbsp; Much as he loved her, dear as her
presence to him always was, he hardly wished to have her at Carbury
unless she would come with a resolution to be its future
mistress.&nbsp; In one respect he did Lady Carbury an
injustice.&nbsp; He knew that she was anxious to forward his suit,
and he thought that Henrietta was being brought to his house with
that object.&nbsp; He had not heard that the great heiress was coming
into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew nothing of Lady Carbury's
scheme in that direction.&nbsp; He was, too, disgusted by the
ill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position as
a director.&nbsp; Roger Carbury did not believe in the Railway.&nbsp;
He did not believe in Fisker, nor in Melmotte, and certainly not in
the Board generally.&nbsp; Paul Montague had acted in opposition to
his advice in yielding to the seductions of Fisker.&nbsp; The whole
thing was to his mind false, fraudulent, and ruinous.&nbsp; Of what
nature could be a Company which should have itself directed by such
men as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix Carbury?&nbsp; And then as
to their great Chairman, did not everybody know, in spite of all the
duchesses, that Mr Melmotte was a gigantic swindler?&nbsp; Although
there was more than one immediate cause for bitterness between them,
Roger loved Paul Montague well and could not bear with patience the
appearance of his friend's name on such a list.&nbsp; And now he was
asked for warm congratulations because Sir Felix Carbury was one of
the Board!&nbsp; He did not know which to despise most, Sir Felix for
belonging to such a Board, or the Board for having such a
director.&nbsp; "New sphere of life!" he said to himself.&nbsp; "The
only proper sphere for them all would be Newgate!"

<p>And there was another trouble.&nbsp; He had asked Paul Montague to
come to Carbury for this special week, and Paul had accepted the
invitation.&nbsp; With the constancy, which was perhaps his strongest
characteristic, he clung to his old affection for the man.&nbsp; He
could not bear the idea of a permanent quarrel, though he knew that
there must be a quarrel if the man interfered with his dearest
hopes.&nbsp; He had asked him down to Carbury intending that the name
of Henrietta Carbury should not be mentioned between them;&mdash;and now
it was proposed to him that Henrietta Carbury should be at the Manor
House at the very time of Paul's visit!&nbsp; He made up his mind at
once that he must tell Paul not to come.

<p>He wrote his two letters at once.&nbsp; That to Lady Carbury was
very short.&nbsp; He would be delighted to see her and Henrietta at
the time named,&mdash;and would be very glad should it suit Felix to come
also.&nbsp; He did not say a word about the Board, or the young man's
probable usefulness in his new sphere of life.&nbsp; To Montague his
letter was longer.&nbsp; "It is always best to be open and true," he
said.&nbsp; "Since you were kind enough to say that you would
come to me, Lady Carbury has proposed to visit me just at the same
time and to bring her daughter.&nbsp; After what has passed between
us I need hardly say that I could not make you both welcome here
together.&nbsp; It is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to
postpone your visit, but I think you will not accuse me of a want of
hospitality towards you."&nbsp; Paul wrote back to say that he was
sure that there was no want of hospitality, and that he would remain
in town.

<p>Suffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be said
that the scenery round Carbury was either grand or beautiful; but
there were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and the
grounds around it which gave it a charm of its own.&nbsp; The Carbury
River,&mdash;so called, though at no place is it so wide but that an
active schoolboy might jump across it,&mdash;runs, or rather creeps into
the Waveney, and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds
Carbury Manor House.&nbsp; The moat has been rather a trouble to the
proprietors, and especially so to Roger, as in these days of sanitary
considerations it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean
with at any rate moving water in it, or else to fill it up and
abolish it altogether.&nbsp; That plan of abolishing it had to be
thought of and was seriously discussed about ten years since; but
then it was decided that such a proceeding would altogether alter the
character of the house, would destroy the gardens, and would create a
waste of mud all round the place which it would take years to
beautify, or even to make endurable.&nbsp; And then an important
question had been asked by an intelligent farmer who had long been a
tenant on the property; "Fill un oop;&mdash;eh, eh; sooner said than
doone, squoire.&nbsp; Where be the stoof to come from?"&nbsp; The
squire, therefore, had given up that idea, and instead of abolishing
his moat had made it prettier than ever.&nbsp; The high road from
Bungay to Beccles ran close to the house,&mdash;so close that the gable
ends of the building were separated from it only by the breadth of
the moat.&nbsp; A short, private road, not above a hundred yards in
length, led to the bridge which faced the front door.&nbsp; The
bridge was old, and high, with sundry architectural pretensions, and
guarded by iron gates in the centre, which, however, were very rarely
closed.&nbsp; Between the bridge and the front door there was a sweep
of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage, and on
either side of this the house was brought close to the water, so that
the entrance was in a recess, or irregular quadrangle, of which the
bridge and moat formed one side.&nbsp; At the back of the house there
were large gardens screened from the road by a wall ten feet high, in
which there were yew trees and cypresses said to be of wonderful
antiquity.&nbsp; The gardens were partly inside the moat, but chiefly
beyond them, and were joined by two bridges a foot bridge and one
with a carriage way,&mdash;and there was another bridge at the end of the
house furthest from the road, leading from the back door to the
stables and farmyard.

<p>The house itself had been built in the time of Charles II., when
that which we call Tudor architecture was giving way to a cheaper,
less picturesque, though perhaps more useful form.&nbsp; But Carbury
Manor House, through the whole county, had the reputation of being a
Tudor building.&nbsp; The windows were long, and for the most part
low, made with strong mullions, and still contained small,
old-fashioned panes; for the squire had not as yet gone to the
expense of plate glass.&nbsp; There was one high bow window, which
belonged to the library, and which looked out on to the gravel sweep,
at the left of the front door as you entered it.&nbsp; All the other
chief rooms faced upon the garden.&nbsp; The house itself was built
of a stone that had become buff, or almost yellow, with years, and
was very pretty.&nbsp; It was still covered with tiles, as were all
the attached buildings.&nbsp; It was only two stories high, except at
the end, where the kitchens were placed and the offices, which thus
rose above the other part of the edifice.&nbsp; The rooms throughout
were low, and for the most part long and narrow, with large wide
fireplaces and deep wainscotings.&nbsp; Taking it altogether, one
would be inclined to say, that it was picturesque rather than
comfortable.&nbsp; Such as it was its owner was very proud of
it,&mdash;with a pride of which he never spoke to any one, which he
endeavoured studiously to conceal, but which had made itself known to
all who knew him well.&nbsp; The houses of the gentry around him were
superior to his in material comfort and general accommodation, but to
none of them belonged that thoroughly established look of old county
position which belonged to Carbury.&nbsp; Bundlesham, where the
Primeros lived, was the finest house in that part of the county, but
it looked as if it had been built within the last twenty years.&nbsp;
It was surrounded by new shrubs and new lawns, by new walls and new
out-houses, and savoured of trade;&mdash;so at least thought Roger Carbury,
though he never said the words.&nbsp; Caversham was a very large
mansion, built in the early part of George III's reign, when men did
care that things about them should be comfortable, but did not care
that they should be picturesque.&nbsp; There was nothing at all to
recommend Caversham but its size.&nbsp; Eardly Park, the seat of the
Hepworths, had, as a park, some pretensions.&nbsp; Carbury possessed
nothing that could be called a park, the enclosures beyond the
gardens being merely so many home paddocks.&nbsp; But the house of
Eardly was ugly and bad.&nbsp; The Bishop's palace was an excellent
gentleman's residence, but then that too was comparatively modern,
and had no peculiar features of its own.&nbsp; Now Carbury Manor
House was peculiar, and in the eyes of its owner was pre-eminently
beautiful.

<p>It often troubled him to think what would come of the place when
he was gone.&nbsp; He was at present forty years old, and was perhaps
as healthy a man as you could find in the whole county.&nbsp; Those
around who had known him as he grew into manhood among them,
especially the farmers of the neighbourhood, still regarded him as a
young man.&nbsp; They spoke of him at the county fairs as the young
squire.&nbsp; When in his happiest moods he could be almost a boy,
and he still had something of old-fashioned boyish reverence for his
elders.&nbsp; But of late there had grown up a great care within his
breast,&mdash;a care which does not often, perhaps in these days bear so
heavily on men's hearts as it used to do.&nbsp; He had asked his
cousin to marry him,&mdash;having assured himself with certainty that he
did love her better than any other woman,&mdash;and she had
declined.&nbsp; She had refused him more than once, and he believed
her implicitly when she told him that she could not love him.&nbsp;
He had a way of believing people, especially when such belief was
opposed to his own interests, and had none of that self-confidence
which makes a man think that if opportunity be allowed him he can win
a woman even in spite of herself.&nbsp; But if it were fated that he
should not succeed with Henrietta, then,&mdash;so he felt assured,&mdash;no
marriage would now be possible to him.&nbsp; In that case he must
look out for an heir, and could regard himself simply as a stop-gap
among the Carburys.&nbsp; In that case he could never enjoy the
luxury of doing the best he could with the property in order that a
son of his own might enjoy it.

<p>Now Sir Felix was the next heir.&nbsp; Roger was hampered by no
entail, and could leave every acre of the property as he
pleased.&nbsp; In one respect the natural succession to it by Sir
Felix would generally be considered fortunate.&nbsp; It had happened
that a title had been won in a lower branch of the family, and were
this succession to take place the family title and the family
property would go together.&nbsp; No doubt to Sir Felix himself such
an arrangement would seem to be the most proper thing in the
world,&mdash;as it would also to Lady Carbury were it not that she looked
to Carbury Manor as the future home of another child.&nbsp; But to
all this the present owner of the property had very strong
objections.&nbsp; It was not only that he thought ill of the baronet
himself,&mdash;so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good could
come from that quarter,&mdash;but he thought ill also of the baronetcy
itself.&nbsp; Sir Patrick, to his thinking, had been altogether
unjustifiable in accepting an enduring title, knowing that he would
leave behind him no property adequate for its support.&nbsp; A
baronet, so thought Roger Carbury, should be a rich man, rich enough
to grace the rank which he assumed to wear.&nbsp; A title, according
to Roger's doctrine on such subjects, could make no man a gentleman,
but, if improperly worn, might degrade a man who would otherwise be a
gentleman.&nbsp; He thought that a gentleman, born and bred,
acknowledged as such without doubt, could not be made more than a
gentleman by all the titles which the Queen could give.&nbsp; With
these old-fashioned notions Roger hated the title which had fallen
upon a branch of his family.&nbsp; He certainly would not leave his
property to support the title which Sir Felix unfortunately
possessed.&nbsp; But Sir Felix was the natural heir, and this man
felt himself constrained, almost as by some divine law, to see that
his land went by natural descent.&nbsp; Though he was in no degree
fettered as to its disposition, he did not presume himself to have
more than a life interest in the estate.&nbsp; It was his duty to see
that it went from Carbury to Carbury as long as there was a Carbury
to hold it, and especially his duty to see that it should go from his
hands, at his death, unimpaired in extent or value.&nbsp; There was
no reason why he should himself die for the next twenty or thirty
years,&mdash;but were he to die Sir Felix would undoubtedly dissipate the
acres, and then there would be an end of Carbury.&nbsp; But in such
case he, Roger Carbury, would at any rate have done his duty.&nbsp;
He knew that no human arrangements can be fixed, let the care in
making them be ever so great.&nbsp; To his thinking it would be
better that the estate should be dissipated by a Carbury than held
together by a stranger.&nbsp; He would stick to the old name while
there was one to bear it, and to the old family while a member of it
was left.&nbsp; So thinking, he had already made his will, leaving
the entire property to the man whom of all others he most despised,
should he himself die without child.

<p>In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Carbury was expected, he
wandered about the place thinking of all this.&nbsp; How infinitely
better it would be that he should have an heir of his own!&nbsp; How
wonderfully beautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin
would consent to be his wife!&nbsp; How wearily insipid must it be if
no such consent could be obtained from her!&nbsp; And then he thought
much of her welfare too.&nbsp; In very truth he did not like Lady
Carbury.&nbsp; He saw through her character, judging her with almost
absolute accuracy.&nbsp; The woman was affectionate, seeking good
things for others rather than for herself; but she was essentially
worldly, believing that good could come out of evil, that falsehood
might in certain conditions be better than truth, that shams and
pretences might do the work of true service, that a strong house
might be built upon the sand!&nbsp; It was lamentable to him that the
girl he loved should be subjected to this teaching, and live in an
atmosphere so burdened with falsehood.&nbsp; Would not the touch of
pitch at last defile her?&nbsp; In his heart of hearts he believed
that she loved Paul Montague; and of Paul himself he was beginning to
fear evil.&nbsp; What but a sham could be a man who consented to
pretend to sit as one of a Board of Directors to manage an enormous
enterprise with such colleagues as Lord Alfred Grendall and Sir Felix
Carbury, under the absolute control of such a one as Mr Augustus
Melmotte?&nbsp; Was not this building a house upon the sand with a
vengeance?&nbsp; What a life it would be for Henrietta Carbury were
she to marry a man striving to become rich without labour and without
capital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar,&mdash;a
city adventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most
dishonest?&nbsp; He strove to think well of Paul Montague, but such
was the life which he feared the young man was preparing for himself.

<p>Then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms
which the two ladies were to occupy.&nbsp; As their host, a host
without a wife or mother or sister, it was his duty to see that
things were comfortable, but it may be doubted whether he would have
been so careful had the mother been coming alone.&nbsp; In the
smaller room of the two the hangings were all white, and the room was
sweet with May flowers; and he brought a white rose from the
hot-house, and placed it in a glass on the dressing table.&nbsp;
Surely she would know who put it there.&nbsp; Then he stood at the
open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantly for half an
hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before the front
door.&nbsp; During that half-hour he resolved that he would try again
as though there had as yet been no repulse.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="15"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XV.&nbsp; "You should remember that I am his Mother"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"This is so kind of you," said Lady Carbury, grasping her cousin's
hand as she got out of the carriage.

<p>"The kindness is on your part," said Roger.

<p>"I felt so much before I dared to ask you to take us.&nbsp; But I
did so long to get into the country, and I do so love Carbury.&nbsp;
And&mdash;and&mdash;"

<p>"Where should a Carbury go to escape from London smoke, but to
the old house?&nbsp; I am afraid Henrietta will find it dull."

<p>"Oh no," said Hetta smiling.&nbsp; "You ought to remember that I
am never dull in the country."

<p>"The bishop and Mrs Yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,&mdash;and
the Hepworths."

<p>"I shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more," said Lady
Carbury.

<p>"I think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear,
good fellow, and his wife is just as good.&nbsp; And there is another
gentleman coming whom you have never seen."

<p>"A new neighbour?"

<p>"Yes,&mdash;a new neighbour;&mdash;Father John Barham, who has come to
Beccles as priest.&nbsp; He has got a little cottage about a mile
from here, in this parish, and does duty both at Beccles and
Bungay.&nbsp; I used to know something of his family."

<p>"He is a gentleman then?"

<p>"Certainly he is a gentleman.&nbsp; He took his degree at Oxford,
and then became what we call a pervert, and what I suppose they call
a convert.&nbsp; He has not got a shilling in the world beyond what
they pay him as a priest, which I take it amounts to about as much as
the wages of a day labourer.&nbsp; He told me the other day that he
was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes."

<p>"How shocking!" said Lady Carbury, holding up her hands.

<p>"He didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it.&nbsp; We have
got to be quite friends."

<p>"Will the bishop like to meet him?"

<p>"Why should not the bishop like to meet him?&nbsp; I've told the
bishop all about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know
him.&nbsp; He won't hurt the bishop.&nbsp; But you and Hetta will
find it very dull."

<p>"I shan't find it dull, Mr Carbury," said Henrietta.

<p>"It was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down
here," said Lady Carbury.

<p>She had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were
expected at the Manor House.&nbsp; Sir Felix had promised to come
down on Saturday, with the intention of returning on Monday, and Lady
Carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between
Caversham and the Manor House, so that her son might have the full
advantage of his closeness to Marie Melmotte.

<p>"I have asked the Longestaffes for Monday," said Roger.

"They are down here then?"

<p>"I think they arrived yesterday.&nbsp; There is always a
flustering breeze in the air and a perturbation generally through the
county when they come or go, and I think I perceived the effects
about four in the afternoon.&nbsp; They won't come, I dare say."

<p>"Why not?"

<p>"They never do.&nbsp; They have probably a house full of guests,
and they know that my accommodation is limited.&nbsp; I've no doubt
they'll ask us on Tuesday or Wednesday, and if you like we will go."

<p>"I know they are to have guests," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"What guests?"

<p>"The Melmottes are coming to them."&nbsp; Lady Carbury, as she
made the announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and
self-possession were failing her, and that she could not mention the
thing as she would any matter that was indifferent to her.

<p>"The Melmottes coming to Caversham!" said Roger, looking at
Henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been
brought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might
have an opportunity of seeing Marie Melmotte in the country.

<p>"Oh yes,&mdash;Madame Melmotte told me.&nbsp; I take it they are very
intimate."

<p>"Mr Longestaffe ask the Melmottes to visit him at Caversham!"

<p>"Why not?"

<p>"I should almost as soon have believed that I myself might have
been induced to ask them here."

<p>"I fancy, Roger, that Mr Longestaffe does want a little pecuniary
assistance."

<p>"And he condescends to get it in this way!&nbsp; I suppose it will
make no difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't.&nbsp;
Things aren't as they were, of course, and never will be again.&nbsp;
Perhaps it's all for the better;&mdash;I won't say it isn't.&nbsp; But I
should have thought that such a man as Mr Longestaffe might have kept
such another man as Mr Melmotte out of his wife's
drawing-room."&nbsp; Henrietta became redder than ever.&nbsp; Even
Lady Carbury flushed up, as she remembered that Roger Carbury knew
that she had taken her daughter to Madame Melmotte's ball.&nbsp; He
thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and then
tried to make some half apology.&nbsp; "I don't approve of them in
London, you know; but I think they are very much worse in the
country."

<p>Then there was a movement.&nbsp; The ladies were shown into their
rooms, and Roger again went out into the garden.&nbsp; He began to
feel that he understood it all.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had come down to
his house in order that she might be near the Melmottes!&nbsp; There
was something in this which he felt it difficult not to resent.&nbsp;
It was for no love of him that she was there.&nbsp; He had felt that
Henrietta ought not to have been brought to his house; but he could
have forgiven that, because her presence there was a charm to
him.&nbsp; He could have forgiven that, even while he was thinking
that her mother had brought her there with the object of disposing of
her.&nbsp; If it were so, the mother's object would be the same as
his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, though he could not
approve.&nbsp; His self-love had to some extent been gratified.&nbsp;
But now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in order
that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might
be furthered!

<p>As he was thinking of all this, Lady Carbury came out to him in
the garden.&nbsp; She had changed her travelling dress, and made
herself pretty, as she well knew how to do.&nbsp; And now she dressed
her face in her sweetest smiles.&nbsp; Her mind, also, was full of
the Melmottes, and she wished to explain to her stern, unbending
cousin all the good that might come to her and hers by an alliance
with the heiress.&nbsp; "I can understand, Roger," she said, taking
his arm, "that you should not like those people."

<p>"What people?"

<p>"The Melmottes."

<p>"I don't dislike them.&nbsp; How should I dislike people that I
never saw?&nbsp; I dislike those who seek their society simply
because they have the reputation of being rich."

<p>"Meaning me."

<p>"No; not meaning you.&nbsp; I don't dislike you, as you know very
well, though I do dislike the fact that you should run after these
people.&nbsp; I was thinking of the Longestaffes then."

<p>"Do you suppose, my friend, that I run after them for my own
gratification?&nbsp; Do you think that I go to their house because I
find pleasure in their magnificence; or that I follow them down here
for any good that they will do me?"

<p>"I would not follow them at all."

<p>"I will go back if you bid me, but I must first explain what I
mean.&nbsp; You know my son's condition,&mdash;better, I fear, than he
does himself."&nbsp; Roger nodded assent to this, but said
nothing.&nbsp; "What is he to do?&nbsp; The only chance for a young
man in his position is that he should marry a girl with money.&nbsp;
He is good-looking; you can't deny that."

<p>"Nature has done enough for him."

<p>"We must take him as he is.&nbsp; He was put into the army very
young, and was very young when he came into possession of his own
small fortune.&nbsp; He might have done better; but how many young
men placed in such temptations do well?&nbsp; As it is, he has
nothing left."

<p>"I fear not."

<p>"And therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl
with money?"

<p>"I call that stealing a girl's money, Lady Carbury."

<p>"Oh, Roger, how hard you are!"

<p>"A man must be hard or soft,&mdash;which is best?"

<p>"With women I think that a little softness has the most
effect.&nbsp; I want to make you understand this about the
Melmottes.&nbsp; It stands to reason that the girl will not marry
Felix unless she loves him."

<p>"But does he love her?"

<p>"Why should he not?&nbsp; Is a girl to be debarred from being
loved because she has money?&nbsp; Of course she looks to be married,
and why should she not have Felix if she likes him best?&nbsp; Cannot
you sympathise with my anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a
disgrace to the name and to the family?"

<p>"We had better not talk about the family, Lady Carbury."

<p>"But I think so much about it."

<p>"You will never get me to say that I think the family will be
benefited by a marriage with the daughter of Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; I
look upon him as dirt in the gutter.&nbsp; To me, in my old-fashioned
way, all his money, if he has it, can make no difference.&nbsp; When
there is a question of marriage, people at any rate should know
something of each other.&nbsp; Who knows anything of this man?&nbsp;
Who can be sure that she is his daughter?"

<p>"He would give her her fortune when she married."

<p>"Yes; it all comes to that.&nbsp; Men say openly that he is an
adventurer and a swindler.&nbsp; No one pretends to think that he is
a gentleman.&nbsp; There is a consciousness among all who speak of
him that he amasses his money not by honest trade, but by unknown
tricks as does a card-sharper.&nbsp; He is one whom we would not
admit into our kitchens, much less to our tables, on the score of his
own merits.&nbsp; But because he has learned the art of making money,
we not only put up with him, but settle upon his carcase as so many
birds of prey."

<p>"Do you mean that Felix should not marry the girl, even if they
love each other?"

<p>He shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love
on the part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only as
regarded him, but also his mother.&nbsp; He could not quite declare
this, and yet he desired that she should understand that he thought
so.&nbsp; "I have nothing more to say about it," he continued.&nbsp;
"Had it gone on in London I should have said nothing.&nbsp; It is no
affair of mine.&nbsp; When I am told that the girl is in the
neighbourhood, at such a house as Caversham, and that Felix is coming
here in order that he may be near to his prey, and when I am asked
to be a party to the thing, I can only say what I think.&nbsp; Your
son would be welcome to my house, because he is your son and my
cousin, little as I approve his mode of life; but I could have wished
that he had chosen some other place for the work that he has on
hand."

<p>"If you wish it, Roger, we will return to London.&nbsp; I shall
find it hard to explain to Hetta;&mdash;but we will go."

<p>"No; I certainly do not wish that."

<p>"But you have said such hard things!&nbsp; How are we to
stay?&nbsp; You speak of Felix as though he were all bad."&nbsp; She
looked at him hoping to get from him some contradiction of this, some
retractation, some kindly word; but it was what he did think, and he
had nothing to say.&nbsp; She could bear much.&nbsp; She was not
delicate as to censure implied, or even expressed.&nbsp; She had
endured rough usage before, and was prepared to endure more.&nbsp;
Had he found fault with herself, or with Henrietta, she would have
put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,&mdash;would have
forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have been
deserved.&nbsp; But for her son she was prepared to fight.&nbsp; If
she did not defend him, who would?&nbsp; "I am grieved, Roger, that
we should have troubled you with our visit, but I think that we had
better go.&nbsp; You are very harsh, and it crushes me."

<p>"I have not meant to be harsh."

<p>"You say that Felix is seeking for his&mdash;prey, and that he is to be
brought here to be near&mdash;his prey.&nbsp; What can be more harsh than
that?&nbsp; At any rate, you should remember that I am his mother."

<p>She expressed her sense of injury very well.&nbsp; Roger began to
be ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind
words.&nbsp; And yet he did not know how to recall them.&nbsp; "If I
have hurt you, I regret it much."

<p>"Of course you have hurt me.&nbsp; I think I will go in now.&nbsp;
How very hard the world is!&nbsp; I came here thinking to find peace
and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once."

<p>"You asked me about the Melmottes, and I was obliged to
speak.&nbsp; You cannot think that I meant to offend you."&nbsp; They
walked on in silence till they had reached the door leading from the
garden into the house, and here he stopped her.&nbsp; "If I have been
over hot with you, let me beg your pardon," She smiled and bowed; but
her smile was not one of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on
into the house.&nbsp; "Pray do not speak of going, Lady Carbury."

<p>"I think I will go to my room now.&nbsp; My head aches so that I
can hardly stand."

<p>It was late in the afternoon,&mdash;about six,&mdash;and according to his
daily custom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men
as they came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on
the spot where Lady Carbury had left him and went slowly across the
lawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet.&nbsp;
Could it really be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to
take her daughter with her?&nbsp; Was it thus that he was to part
with the one human being in the world that he loved?&nbsp; He was a
man who thought much of the duties of hospitality, feeling that a man
in his own house was bound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests
sweeter, softer, more gracious than the world required
elsewhere.&nbsp; And of all guests those of his own name were the
best entitled to such courtesy at Carbury.&nbsp; He held the place in
trust for the use of others.&nbsp; But if there were one among all
others to whom the house should be a house of refuge from care, not
an abode of trouble, on whose behalf, were it possible, he would make
the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their wont, to whom
he would declare, were such words possible to his tongue, that of him
and of his house, and of all things there, she was the mistress,
whether she would condescend to love him or no,&mdash;that one was his
cousin Hetta.&nbsp; And now he had been told by his guest that he had
been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to London!

<p>And he could not acquit himself.&nbsp; He knew that he had been
rough.&nbsp; He had said very hard words.&nbsp; It was true that he
could not have expressed his meaning without hard words, nor have
repressed his meaning without self-reproach.&nbsp; But in his present
mood he could not comfort himself by justifying himself.&nbsp; She
had told him that he ought to have remembered that Felix was her son;
and as she spoke she had acted well the part of an outraged
mother.&nbsp; His heart was so soft that though he knew the woman to
be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemned
himself.&nbsp; Look where he would there was no comfort.&nbsp; When
he had sat half an hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house
to dress for dinner,&mdash;and to prepare himself for an apology, if any
apology might be accepted.&nbsp; At the door, standing in the doorway
as though waiting for him, he met his cousin Hetta.&nbsp; She had on
her bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached
her he thought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness
towards him than he had ever seen there before.

<p>"Mr Carbury," she said, "mamma is so unhappy!"

<p>"I fear that I have offended her."

<p>"It is not that, but that you should be so&mdash;so angry about Felix."

<p>"I am vexed with myself that I have vexed her,&mdash;more vexed than I
can tell you."

<p>"She knows how good you are."

<p>"No, I'm not.&nbsp; I was very bad just now.&nbsp; She was so
offended with me that she talked of going back to London."&nbsp; He
paused for her to speak, but Hetta had no words ready for the
moment.&nbsp; "I should be wretched indeed if you and she were to
leave my house in anger."

<p>"I do not think she will do that."

<p>"And you?"

<p>"I am not angry.&nbsp; I should never dare to be angry with
you.&nbsp; I only wish that Felix would be better.&nbsp; They say
that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as
they grow older.&nbsp; He is something in the city now, a director
they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to
him."&nbsp; Roger could express no hope in this direction or even
look as though he approved of the directorship.&nbsp; "I don't see
why he should not try at any rate."

<p>"Dear Hetta, I only wish he were like you."

<p>"Girls are so different, you know."

<p>It was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he
made his apology in form to Lady Carbury; but he did make it, and at
last it was accepted.&nbsp; "I think I was rough to you, talking
about Felix," he said,&mdash;"and I beg your pardon."

<p>"You were energetic, that was all."

<p>"A gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should
never be rough to his own guests.&nbsp; I hope you will forgive
me."&nbsp; She answered him by putting out her hand and smiling on
him; and so the quarrel was over.

<p>Lady Carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was
enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly.&nbsp; Felix might
now come down to Carbury, and go over from thence to Caversham, and
prosecute his wooing, and the master of Carbury could make no further
objection.&nbsp; And Felix, if he would come, would not now be
snubbed.&nbsp; Roger would understand that he was constrained to
courtesy by the former severity of his language.&nbsp; Such points as
these Lady Carbury never missed.&nbsp; He understood it too, and
though he was soft and gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make
his house as pleasant as he could to his two guests, he felt that he
had been cheated out of his undoubted right to disapprove of all
connection with the Melmottes.&nbsp; In the course of the evening
there came a note,&mdash;or rather a bundle of notes,&mdash;from
Caversham.&nbsp; That addressed to Roger was in the form of a
letter.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was sorry to say that the Longestaffe party
were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at Carbury Hall by
the fact that they had a house full of guests.&nbsp; Lady Pomona
hoped that Mr Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady Pomona heard, were
with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes the pleasure of
dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday following, as
might best suit the Carbury plans.&nbsp; That was the purport of Lady
Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Then there were cards of
invitation for Lady Carbury and her daughter, and also for Sir Felix.

<p>Roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to Lady
Carbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done.&nbsp;
The tone of his, voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was
something in it of his former harshness.&nbsp; But she knew how to
use her triumph.&nbsp; "I should like to go," she said.

<p>"I certainly shall not go," he replied; "but there will be no
difficulty whatever in sending you over.&nbsp; You must answer at
once, because their servant is waiting."

<p>"Monday will be best," she said; "&mdash;that is, if nobody is coming
here."

<p>"There will be nobody here."

<p>"I suppose I had better say that I, and Hetta,&mdash;and Felix will
accept their invitation."

<p>"I can make no suggestion," said Roger, thinking how delightful it
would be if Henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was
that Henrietta should be taken to Caversham to meet the
Melmottes.&nbsp; Poor Hetta herself could say nothing.&nbsp; She
certainly did not wish to meet the Melmottes, nor did she wish to
dine, alone, with her cousin Roger.

<p>"That will be best," said Lady Carbury after a moment's
thought.&nbsp; "It is very good of you to let us go, and to send us."

<p>"Of course you will do here just as you please," he replied.&nbsp;
But there was still that tone in his voice which Lady Carbury
feared.&nbsp; A quarter of an hour later the Caversham servant was on
his way home with two letters,&mdash;the one from Roger expressing his
regret that he could not accept Lady Pomona's invitation, and the
other from Lady Carbury declaring that she and her son and daughter
would have great pleasure in dining at Caversham on the Monday.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="16"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XVI.&nbsp; The Bishop and the Priest</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house
had been very stormy.&nbsp; Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady
Carbury had suffered under his severity,&mdash;or had at least so well
pretended to suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression
that he had been cruel to her.&nbsp; She had then talked of going
back at once to London, and when consenting to remain, had remained
with a very bad feminine headache.&nbsp; She had altogether carried
her point, but had done so in a storm.&nbsp; The next morning was
very calm.&nbsp; That question of meeting the Melmottes had been
settled, and there was no need for speaking of them again.&nbsp;
Roger went out by himself about the farm, immediately after
breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonette
when they pleased.&nbsp; "I'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving
about our lanes," he said.&nbsp; Lady Carbury assured him that she
was never dull when left alone with books.&nbsp; Just as he was
starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought
to Henrietta.&nbsp; He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went
his way.&nbsp; He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of
his suit till Monday.&nbsp; If he could prevail with her then he
would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother would be
going out to dine at Caversham.&nbsp; She looked up into his face as
she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper.&nbsp; She fully
appreciated the truth, and honour, and honesty of his character, and
could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have
contented himself with such cousinly love!&nbsp; She was beginning,
within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother,
and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have.&nbsp;
But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love?

<p>"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here,"
said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Why so, mamma?"

<p>"It will be so dull.&nbsp; Your cousin is the best friend in all
the world, and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of
all the gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is
not a comfortable host.&nbsp; What nonsense he did talk about the
Melmottes!"

<p>"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr and Mrs Melmotte can be nice
people."

<p>"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else?&nbsp; Pray,
Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you.&nbsp;
When it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to
be borne, but I beg that you will not copy him."

<p>"Mamma, I think that is unkind."

<p>"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to
abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his
legs.&nbsp; A word from you might undo all that we are doing."

<p>"What word?"

<p>"What word?&nbsp; Any word!&nbsp; If you have any influence with
your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this
on.&nbsp; I am sure the girl is willing enough.&nbsp; She did refer
him to her father."

<p>"Then why does he not go to Mr Melmotte?"

<p>"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money.&nbsp; If
Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this
place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I
don't think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte."

<p>"How could he do that, mamma?"

<p>"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so.&nbsp;
Your brother would be his heir."

<p>"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."

<p>"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think?&nbsp; Am I not to
think of my own son?&nbsp; Is he not to be dearer to me than any
one?&nbsp; And what I say, is so.&nbsp; If Roger were to die to-morrow
he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."

<p>"But, mamma, he will live and have a family.&nbsp; Why should he
not?"

<p>"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."

<p>"I never said so.&nbsp; When we were joking, I said he was
old.&nbsp; You know I did not mean that he was too old to get
married.&nbsp; Men a great deal older get married every day."

<p>"If you don't accept him he will never marry.&nbsp; He is a man of
that kind,&mdash;so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing
will change him.&nbsp; He will go on boodying over it, till he will
become an old misanthrope.&nbsp; If you would take him I would be
quite contented.&nbsp; You are my child as well as Felix.&nbsp; But
if you mean to be obstinate I do wish that the Melmottes should be
made to understand that the property and title and name of the place
will all go together.&nbsp; It will be so, and why should not Felix
have the advantage?"

<p>"Who is to say it?"

<p>"Ah,&mdash;that's where it is.&nbsp; Roger is so violent and prejudiced
that one cannot get him to speak rationally."

<p>"Oh, mamma,&mdash;you wouldn't suggest it to him;&mdash;that this place is
to go to&mdash;Felix, when he&mdash;is dead!"

<p>"It would not kill him a day sooner."

<p>"You would not dare to do it, mamma."

<p>"I would dare to do anything for my children.&nbsp; But you need
not look like that, Henrietta.&nbsp; I am not going to say anything
to him of the kind.&nbsp; He is not quick enough to understand of
what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting
himself."&nbsp; Henrietta would fain have answered that their cousin
was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part
in such a scheme as that proposed.&nbsp; She refrained, however, and
was silent.&nbsp; There was no sympathy on the matter between her and
her mother.&nbsp; She was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes
of manoeuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to
dislike and almost to despise them.&nbsp; But she felt it to be her
duty to abstain from rebukes.

<p>In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into
Beccles that she might telegraph to her son.&nbsp; "You are to dine
at Caversham on Monday.&nbsp; Come on Saturday if you can.&nbsp; She
is there."&nbsp; Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of
this message.&nbsp; The female in the office might too probably
understand who was the "she" who was spoken of as being at Caversham,
and might understand also the project, and speak of it
publicly.&nbsp; But then it was essential that Felix should know how
great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him.&nbsp; He had
promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday,&mdash;and, unless
warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the
Longestaffes and their dinner-party.&nbsp; Again if he were told to
come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing
her on the Sunday.&nbsp; It was Lady Carbury's desire to get him down
for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would so
tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress
was already in the neighbourhood.&nbsp; Then she returned, and shut
herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper
which she was writing for the "Breakfast Table."&nbsp; Nobody should
ever accuse her justly of idleness.&nbsp; And afterwards, as she
walked by herself round and round the garden, she revolved in her
mind the scheme of a new book.&nbsp; Whatever might happen she would
persevere.&nbsp; If the Carburys were unfortunate their misfortunes
should come from no fault of hers.&nbsp; Henrietta passed the whole
day alone.&nbsp; She did not see her cousin from breakfast till he
appeared in the drawing-room before dinner.&nbsp; But she was
thinking of him during every minute of the day,&mdash;how good he was, how
honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her
hand!&nbsp; Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be
regarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for
her.&nbsp; Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would
never marry unless she would take his hand?&nbsp; She came to think
of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet,
she would not tell herself she loved him.&nbsp; It might, perhaps, be
her duty to give herself to him without loving him,&mdash;because he was
so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.

<p>In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs Yeld, and the
Hepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles
priest.&nbsp; The party consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the
best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a
dinner-table,&mdash;especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative
and duty it is to sit opposite to the master.&nbsp; In this case Mr
Hepworth faced the giver of the feast, the bishop and the priest were
opposite to each other, and the ladies graced the four corners.&nbsp;
Roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over
much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer
in all things to the comfort of his guests.&nbsp; In the drawing-room
he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him
first to the bishop and his wife, and then to his cousins.&nbsp;
Henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and told herself
that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house.&nbsp; She had
seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as she
now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die
wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the
mother of his children.

<p>The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and
handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth,
and something of a double chin.&nbsp; He was all but six feet high,
with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been
made for clerical breeches and clerical stockings.&nbsp; He was a man
of fortune outside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London,
and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live
as a nobleman in the country.&nbsp; He did live as a nobleman, and
was very popular.&nbsp; Among the poor around him he was idolized,
and by such clergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their
theology either on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a
model bishop.&nbsp; By the very high and the very low,&mdash;by those
rather who regarded ritualism as being either heavenly or
devilish,&mdash;he was looked upon as a timeserver, because he would not
put to sea in either of those boats.&nbsp; He was an unselfish man,
who loved his neighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and
thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily
to be delivered from temptation.&nbsp; But I doubt whether he was
competent to teach a creed,&mdash;or even to hold one, if it be necessary
that a man should understand and define his creed before he can hold
it.&nbsp; Whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by, any
inward misgivings, who shall say?&nbsp; If there were such he never
whispered a word of them even to the wife of his bosom.&nbsp; From
the tone of his voice and the look of his eye, you would say that he
was unscathed by that agony which doubt on such a matter would surely
bring to a man so placed.&nbsp; And yet it was observed of him that
he never spoke of his faith, or entered into arguments with men as to
the reasons on which he had based it.&nbsp; He was diligent in
preaching,&mdash;moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful.&nbsp;
He was never weary in furthering the welfare of his clergymen.&nbsp;
His house was open to them and to their wives.&nbsp; The edifice of
every church in his diocese was a care to him.&nbsp; He laboured at
schools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the
poor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the
human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith.&nbsp;
Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in
his diocese than the Bishop of Elmham.

<p>A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the
lately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be
impossible to conceive;&mdash;and yet they were both eminently good
men.&nbsp; Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so
thin, so meagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he
stooped, he was taken to be tall.&nbsp; He had thick dark brown hair,
which was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but
which he so constantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that,
though short, it seemed to be wild and uncombed.&nbsp; In his younger
days, when long locks straggled over his forehead, he had acquired a
habit, while talking energetically, of rubbing them back with his
finger, which he had not since dropped.&nbsp; In discussions he would
constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on
the top of his head.&nbsp; He had a high, broad forehead, enormous
blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeks very thin and hollow, a handsome
large mouth, and a strong square chin.&nbsp; He was utterly without
worldly means, except those which came to him from the ministry of
his church, and which did not suffice to find him food and raiment;
but no man ever lived more indifferent to such matters than Father
John Barham.&nbsp; He had been the younger son of an English country
gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to Oxford that he might
hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordination had declared
himself a Roman Catholic.&nbsp; His family had resented this
bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had drawn a sister
with him.&nbsp; When banished from the house he had still striven to
achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now
absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care.&nbsp; But of
this he never complained.&nbsp; It was a part of the plan of his life
that he should suffer for his faith.&nbsp; Had he been able to change
his creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and
poverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable
and satisfactory as it was.&nbsp; He considered that his father, as a
Protestant,&mdash;and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all the
same,&mdash;had been right to quarrel with him.&nbsp; But he loved his
father, and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with
supplications, that his father might see the truth and be as he was.

<p>To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,&mdash;that
he should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others,
and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority.&nbsp;
Faith being sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could
be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him,
whose belief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct
would certainly be added.&nbsp; The dogmas of his Church were to
Father Barham a real religion, and he would teach them in season and
out of season, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving
their truth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which
his perseverance would create.&nbsp; He had but one duty before
him&mdash;to do his part towards bringing over the world to his
faith.&nbsp; It might be that with the toil of his whole life he
should convert but one; that he should but half convert one; that he
should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future
conversion might be possible.&nbsp; But even that would be work
done.&nbsp; He would sow the seed if it might be so; but if it were
not given to him to do that, he would at any rate plough the ground.

<p>He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out
that he was a gentleman by birth and education.&nbsp; Roger had found
out also that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the
hand.&nbsp; The young priest had not hesitated to accept his
neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested
that he should be delighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in
want of a dinner.&nbsp; He had accepted presents from the garden and
the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse
anything.&nbsp; The apparent frankness of the man about himself had
charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when
Father Barham, on one winter evening in the parlour at Carbury, had
tried his hand at converting his host.&nbsp; "I have the most
thorough respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would
not suit me."&nbsp; The priest had gone on with his logic; if he
could not sow the seed he might plough the ground.&nbsp; This had
been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to
be disagreeable.&nbsp; But the man was in earnest, and such
earnestness commanded respect.&nbsp; And Roger was quite sure that
though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such
teaching.&nbsp; Then it occurred to him one day that he had known the
Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard
from the bishop's mouth,&mdash;except when in the pulpit,&mdash;a single word
of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger to him,
divided from him by the very fact of his creed, was always talking to
him about his faith.&nbsp; Roger Carbury was not a man given to much
deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the
pleasanter of the two.

<p>Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness.&nbsp; No
one looking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart
was sore with many troubles.&nbsp; She sat between the bishop and her
cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the
other.&nbsp; She had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion
spoken to him of her soul.&nbsp; The first tone of the good man's
reply had convinced her of her error, and she never repeated
it.&nbsp; To Mr Alf she commonly talked of her mind; to Mr Broune, of
her heart; to Mr Booker of her body&mdash;and its wants.&nbsp; She was
quite ready to talk of her soul on a proper occasion, but she was
much too wise to thrust the subject even on a bishop.&nbsp; Now she
was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood.&nbsp; "Yes,
indeed," said the bishop, "I think Suffolk is a very nice county; and
as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for
Norfolk too.&nbsp; 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own, nest.'".

<p>"I like a county in which there is something left of county
feeling," said Lady Carbury.&nbsp; "Staffordshire and Warwickshire,
Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost all
local distinctions."

<p>"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "silly
Suffolk!"

<p>"But that was never deserved."

<p>"As much, perhaps, as other general epithets.&nbsp; I think we are
a sleepy people.&nbsp; We've got no coal, you see, and no iron.&nbsp;
We have no beautiful scenery, like the lake country,&mdash;no rivers great
for fishing, like Scotland,&mdash;no hunting grounds, like the shires."

<p>"Partridges!" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.

<p>"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring
fishery.&nbsp; We shall do very well if too much is not expected of
us.&nbsp; We can't increase and multiply as they do in the great
cities."

<p>"I like this part of England so much the best for that very
reason.&nbsp; What is the use of a crowded population?"

<p>"The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury."

<p>"Oh, yes," said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to
her voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine
arrangement.&nbsp; "The world must be peopled; but for myself I like
the country better than the town."

<p>"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk.&nbsp; The people are
hearty, and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is
elsewhere.&nbsp; The poor people touch their hats, and the rich
people think of the poor.&nbsp; There is something left among us of
old English habits."

<p>"That is so nice," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Something left of old English ignorance," said the bishop.&nbsp;
"All the same I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the
world.&nbsp; What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr Carbury!&nbsp;
At any rate, we can grow flowers in Suffolk."

<p>Mrs Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and
was in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour.&nbsp; She was,
perhaps, a little stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and
though she was willing to admit that Mr Barham might not have ceased
to be a gentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not
quite sure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much
to do with him.&nbsp; Mr Carbury had not taken them unawares.&nbsp;
Notice had been given that the priest was to be there, and the bishop
had declared that he would be very happy to meet the priest.&nbsp;
But Mrs Yeld had had her misgivings.&nbsp; She never ventured to
insist on her opinion after the bishop had expressed his; but she had
an idea that right was right, and wrong wrong,&mdash;and that Roman
Catholics were wrong, and therefore ought to be put down.&nbsp; And
she thought also that if there were no priests there would be no
Roman Catholics.&nbsp; Mr Barham was, no doubt, a man of good family,
which did make a difference.

<p>Mr Barham always made his approaches very gradually.&nbsp; The
taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was in exact
proportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced
intimacy.&nbsp; Mrs Yeld thought that it became her to address to him
a few civil words, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty
that almost overcame her dislike to his profession.&nbsp; She spoke
of the poor of Beccles, being very careful to allude only to their
material position.&nbsp; There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and
the young women would have finery.&nbsp; Where did they get the money
to buy those wonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday?&nbsp; Mr
Barham was very meek, and agreed to everything that was said.&nbsp;
No doubt he had a plan ready formed for inducing Mrs Yeld to have
mass said regularly within her husband's palace, but he did not even
begin to bring it about on this occasion.&nbsp; It was not till he
made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending
qualities of "our people," that Mrs Yeld drew herself up and changed
the conversation by observing that there had been a great deal of
rain lately.

<p>When the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the
way of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the
morality of Beccles.&nbsp; It was evidently Mr Barham's opinion that
"his people" were more moral than other people, though very much
poorer.&nbsp; "But the Irish always drink," said Mr Hepworth.

<p>"Not so much as the English, I think," said the priest.&nbsp; "And
you are not to suppose that we are all Irish.&nbsp; Of my flock the
greater proportion are English."

<p>"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said the
bishop.&nbsp; "Of course I am aware that there are a certain number
of persons of your persuasion round about us.&nbsp; Indeed, I could
give the exact number in this diocese.&nbsp; But in my own immediate
neighbourhood I could not put my hand upon any families which I know
to be Roman Catholic."

<p>"It is not, my lord, because there are none."

<p>"Of course not.&nbsp; It is because, as I say, I do not know my
neighbours."

<p>"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr
Hepworth.

<p>"They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our
Saviour," said the priest.

<p>"I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn," said the bishop,
with a curious smile.&nbsp; "We were speaking of those who are still
attached to an old creed.&nbsp; Our Saviour was the teacher of a new
religion.&nbsp; That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts
should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in
accordance with our idea of human nature.&nbsp; But that an old faith
should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich
is not so easily intelligible."

<p>"The Roman population still believed," said Carbury, "when the
patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful
bugbears."

<p>"The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion.&nbsp;
The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung
to it also."

<p>"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the
priest.

<p>"That begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his
host, and, beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately
been imported into the palace sties.&nbsp; Father Barham turned to Mr
Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began
another.&nbsp; It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the
county were all poor.&nbsp; There were the A's and the B's, and the
C's and the D's.&nbsp; He knew all their names and was proud of their
fidelity.&nbsp; To him these faithful ones were really the salt of
the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore
England to her pristine condition.&nbsp; The bishop had truly said
that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they
belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve
months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic
within its borders.

<p>"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to
Roger Carbury, "and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent
gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."

<p>"I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his
lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare."

<p>"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect
him.&nbsp; But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely
in his company."

<p>"I am sure he would repeat nothing."

<p>"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going
to get the best of me."

<p>"I don't think it answers," said Mrs Yeld to her husband as they
went home.&nbsp; "Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but
Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman
Catholics."

<p>"You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you
wouldn't have them decline to meet each other."

<p>"It isn't quite the same, my dear.&nbsp; After all religion is
religion."

<p>"It ought to be," said the bishop.

<p>"Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but
I don't know that I want to meet Mr Barham again."

<p>"I don't know that I do, either," said the bishop; "but if he
comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="17"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XVII.&nbsp; Marie Melmotte Hears a Love Tale</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix.&nbsp;
He was to be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain
train; and Roger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a
carriage to the station for him.&nbsp; This was done, but Felix did
not arrive.&nbsp; There was still another train by which he might
come so as to be just in time for dinner if dinner were postponed for
half an hour.&nbsp; Lady Carbury with a tender look, almost without
speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son.&nbsp;
He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased;
but he assented.&nbsp; Then the carriage had to be sent again.&nbsp;
Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at Carbury.&nbsp;
The squire kept a waggonette and a pair of horses which, when not
wanted for house use, were employed about the farm.&nbsp; He himself
would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by
some cheap conveyance.&nbsp; He had already sent the carriage once on
this day,&mdash;and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said a word
which showed that she hoped that this would be done.&nbsp; But he did
it with deep displeasure.&nbsp; To the mother her son was Sir Felix,
the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his
position and rank,&mdash;because also of his intention to marry the great
heiress of the day.&nbsp; To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young
man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever
was due.&nbsp; Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the
waggonette was sent.&nbsp; But the waggonette again came back
empty.&nbsp; That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and
Henrietta, in very much gloom.

<p>About four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of
the baronet.&nbsp; Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon
trains, he had contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found
himself deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to
Carbury.&nbsp; Roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and
Lady Carbury also left her room.&nbsp; Sir Felix evidently thought
that he had been a very fine fellow in going through so much
trouble.&nbsp; Roger held a very different opinion, and spoke little
or nothing.&nbsp; "Oh, Felix," said the mother, "you have so
terrified us!"

<p>"I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to
come fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who
could hardly get up a trot."

<p>"But why didn't you come by the train you named?"

<p>"I couldn't get out of the city," said the baronet with a ready
lie.

<p>"I suppose you were at the Board?"&nbsp; To this Felix made no
direct answer.&nbsp; Roger knew that there had been no Board.&nbsp;
Mr Melmotte was in the country and there could be no Board, nor could
Sir Felix have had business in the city.&nbsp; It was sheer
impudence,&mdash;sheer indifference, and, into the bargain, a downright
lie.&nbsp; The young man, who was of himself so unwelcome, who had
come there on a project which he, Roger, utterly disapproved,&mdash;who
had now knocked him and his household up at four o'clock in the
morning,&mdash;had uttered no word of apology.&nbsp; "Miserable cub!"
Roger muttered between his teeth.&nbsp; Then he spoke aloud, "You had
better not keep your mother standing here.&nbsp; I will show you your
room."

<p>"All right, old fellow," said Sir Felix.&nbsp; "I'm awfully sorry
to disturb you all in this way.&nbsp; I think I'll just take a drop
of brandy and soda before I go to bed, though."&nbsp; This was
another blow to Roger.

<p>"I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have,
I don't know where to get it.&nbsp; I can give you some brandy if you
will come with me."&nbsp; He pronounced the word "brandy" in a tone
which implied that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage.&nbsp; It was
a wretched work to Roger.&nbsp; He was forced to go upstairs and
fetch a key in order that he might wait upon this cub,&mdash;this
cur!&nbsp; He did it, however, and the cub drank his
brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his host's
ill-humour.&nbsp; As he went to bed he suggested the probability of
his not showing himself till lunch on the following day, and
expressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in
bed.&nbsp; "He is born to be hung," said Roger to himself as he went
to his room,&mdash;"and he'll deserve it."

<p>On the following morning, being Sunday, they all went to
church,&mdash;except Felix.&nbsp; Lady Carbury always went to church when
she was in the country, never when she was at home in London.&nbsp;
It was one of those moral habits, like early dinners and long walks,
which suited country life.&nbsp; And she fancied that were she not to
do so, the bishop would be sure to know it and would be
displeased.&nbsp; She liked the bishop.&nbsp; She liked bishops
generally; and was aware that it was a woman's duty to sacrifice
herself for society.&nbsp; As to the purpose for which people go to
church, it had probably never in her life occurred to Lady Carbury to
think of it.&nbsp; On their return they found Sir Felix smoking a
cigar on the gravel path, close in front of the open drawing-room
window.

<p>"Felix," said his cousin, "take your cigar a little farther.&nbsp;
You are filling the house with tobacco."

<p>"Oh heavens,&mdash;what a prejudice!" said the baronet.

<p>"Let it be so, but still do as I ask you."&nbsp; Sir Felix chucked
the cigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon Roger
walked up to the spot and kicked the offending weed away.&nbsp; This
was the first greeting of the day between the two men.

<p>After lunch Lady Carbury strolled about with her son, instigating
him to go over at once to Caversham.&nbsp; "How the deuce am I to get
there?"

<p>"Your cousin will lend you a horse."

<p>"He's as cross as a bear with a sore head.&nbsp; He's a deal older
than I am, and a cousin and all that, but I'm not going to put up
with insolence.&nbsp; If it were anywhere else I should just go into
the yard and ask if I could have a horse and saddle as a matter of
course."

<p>"Roger has not a great establishment."

<p>"I suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it
ready.&nbsp; I don't want anything grand."

<p>"He is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you
yesterday."

<p>"I hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little
grievances.&nbsp; Such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and
because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you.&nbsp; I
shall ask him for a horse as I would any one else, and if he does not
like it, he may lump it."&nbsp; About half an hour after this he
found his cousin.&nbsp; "Can I have a horse to ride over to Caversham
this afternoon?" he said.

<p>"Our horses never go out on Sunday," said Roger.&nbsp; Then he
added, after a pause, "You can have it.&nbsp; I'll give the
order."&nbsp; Sir Felix would be gone on Tuesday, and it should be
his own fault if that odious cousin ever found his way into Carbury
House again!&nbsp; So he declared to himself as Felix rode out of the
yard; but he soon remembered how probable it was that Felix himself
would be the owner of Carbury.&nbsp; And should it ever come to
pass,&mdash;as still was possible,&mdash;that Henrietta should be the mistress
of Carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive her brother.&nbsp;
He stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as he cantered
away upon the road, listening to the horse's feet.&nbsp; The young
man was offensive in every possible way.&nbsp; Who does not know that
ladies only are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon
roads?&nbsp; A gentleman trots his horse, and his friend's
horse.&nbsp; Roger Carbury had but one saddle horse,&mdash;a favourite old
hunter that he loved as a friend.&nbsp; And now this dear old friend,
whose legs probably were not quite so good as they once were, was
being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub!&nbsp; "Soda
and brandy!" Roger exclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the
discomfiture of that early morning.&nbsp; "He'll die some day of
delirium tremens in a hospital!"

<p>Before the Longestaffes left London to receive their new friends
the Melmottes at Caversham, a treaty had been made between Mr
Longestaffe, the father, and Georgiana, the strong-minded
daughter.&nbsp; The daughter on her side undertook that the guests
should be treated with feminine courtesy.&nbsp; This might be called
the most-favoured-nation clause.&nbsp; The Melmottes were to be
treated exactly as though old Melmotte had been a gentleman and
Madame Melmotte a lady.&nbsp; In return for this the Longestaffe
family were to be allowed to return to town.&nbsp; But here again the
father had carried another clause.&nbsp; The prolonged sojourn in
town was to be only for six weeks.&nbsp; On the 10th of July the
Longestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder of
the year.&nbsp; When the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the
father became absolutely violent in his refusal.&nbsp; "In God's name
where do you expect the money is to come from?"&nbsp; When Georgiana
urged that other people had money to go abroad, her father told her
that a time was coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a
house over her head.&nbsp; This, however, she took as having been
said with poetical licence, the same threat having been made more
than once before.&nbsp; The treaty was very clear, and the parties to
it were prepared to carry it out with fair honesty.&nbsp; The
Melmottes were being treated with decent courtesy, and the house in
town was not dismantled.

<p>The idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been
barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family,
that Dolly should marry Marie Melmotte, had been abandoned.&nbsp;
Dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among
his own family, was invincible.&nbsp; He was never persuaded to any
course either by his father or mother.&nbsp; Dolly certainly would
not marry Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; Therefore when the Longestaffes heard
that Sir Felix was coming to the country, they had no special
objection to entertaining him at Caversham.&nbsp; He had been lately
talked of in London as the favourite in regard to Marie
Melmotte.&nbsp; Georgiana Longestaffe had a grudge of her own against
Lord Nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined
towards Sir Felix's prospects.&nbsp; Soon after the Melmottes'
arrival she contrived to say a word to Marie respecting Sir
Felix.&nbsp; "There is a friend of yours going to dine here on
Monday, Miss Melmotte."&nbsp; Marie, who was at the moment still
abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness
of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer.&nbsp; "I think you
know Sir Felix Carbury," continued Georgiana.

<p>"Oh yes, we know Sir Felix Carbury."

<p>"He is coming down to his cousin's.&nbsp; I suppose it is for your
bright eyes, as Carbury Manor would hardly be just what he would
like."

<p>"I don't think he is coming because of me," said Marie
blushing.&nbsp; She had once told him that he might go to her father,
which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his
offer as far as her power of acceptance went.&nbsp; Since that she
had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit,
nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; But
she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other
suitors.&nbsp; She had made up her mind that she was in love with
Felix Carbury, and she had resolved on constancy.&nbsp; But she had
begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness.

<p>"We had heard," said Georgiana, "that he was a particular friend
of yours."&nbsp; And she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which Madame
Melmotte certainly could not have surpassed.

<p>Sir Felix, on the Sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on
the lawn, and he also found Mr Melmotte there.&nbsp; At the last
moment Lord Alfred Grendall had been asked,&mdash;not because he was at
all in favour with any of the Longestaffes, but in order that he
might be useful in disposing of the great Director.&nbsp; Lord Alfred
was used to him and could talk to him, and might probably know what
he liked to eat and drink.&nbsp; Therefore Lord Alfred had been asked
to Caversham, and Lord Alfred had come, having all his expenses paid
by the great Director.&nbsp; When Sir Felix arrived, Lord Alfred was
earning his entertainment by talking to Mr Melmotte in a
summerhouse.&nbsp; He had cool drink before him and a box of cigars,
but was probably thinking at the time how hard the world had been to
him.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was languid, but not uncivil in her
reception.&nbsp; She was doing her best to perform her part of the
treaty in reference to Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; Sophia was walking
apart with a certain Mr Whitstable, a young squire in the
neighbourhood, who had been asked to Caversham because as Sophia was
now reputed to be twenty-eight,&mdash;they who decided the question might
have said thirty-one without falsehood,&mdash;it was considered that Mr
Whitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be
expected.&nbsp; Sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring
handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in London.&nbsp; Georgiana
had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of the offers
which she had rejected.&nbsp; Her friends on the other hand were apt
to tell of her many failures.&nbsp; Nevertheless she held her head
up, and had not as yet come down among the rural Whitstables.&nbsp;
At the present moment her hands were empty, and she was devoting
herself to such a performance of the treaty as should make it
impossible for her father to leave his part of it unfulfilled.

<p>For a few minutes Sir Felix sat on a garden chair making
conversation to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; "Beautiful
garden," he said; "for myself I don't much care for gardens; but if
one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one
would like."

<p>"Delicious," said Madame Melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing
her shawl higher round her throat.&nbsp; It was the end of May, and
the weather was very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart
of hearts, Madame Melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden.

<p>"It isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we
make the best of it," said Lady Pomona.

<p>"Plenty of glass, I see," said Sir Felix.&nbsp; "If one is to live
in the country, I like that kind of thing.&nbsp; Carbury is a very
poor place."

<p>There was offence in this;&mdash;as though the Carbury property and the
Carbury position could be compared to the Longestaffe property and
the Longestaffe position.&nbsp; Though dreadfully hampered for money,
the Longestaffes were great people.&nbsp; "For a small place," said
Lady Pomona, "I think Carbury is one of the nicest in the
county.&nbsp; Of course it is not extensive."

<p>"No, by Jove," said Sir Felix, "you may say that, Lady
Pomona.&nbsp; It's like a prison to me with that moat round
it."&nbsp; Then he jumped up and joined Marie Melmotte and
Georgiana.&nbsp; Georgiana, glad to be released for a time from
performance of the treaty, was not long before she left them
together.&nbsp; She had understood that the two horses now in the
running were Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix; and though she would not
probably have done much to aid Sir Felix, she was quite willing to
destroy Lord Nidderdale.

<p>Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,&mdash;as far as
such willingness could go with him.&nbsp; The prize was so great, and
the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert
himself.&nbsp; It was this feeling which had brought him into
Suffolk, and induced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in
an old cab.&nbsp; For the girl herself he cared not the least.&nbsp;
It was not in his power really to care for anybody.&nbsp; He did not
dislike her much.&nbsp; He was not given to disliking people
strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him.&nbsp; He
regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of Mr Melmotte's
wealth might be conveyed to his uses.&nbsp; In regard to feminine
beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations.&nbsp; He was
by no means indifferent to such attraction.&nbsp; But Marie Melmotte,
from that point of view, was nothing to him.&nbsp; Such prettiness as
belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a
modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the
enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own.&nbsp;
There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something
in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have
thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she
need not fear.&nbsp; Though still shy, she was always resolving that
she would abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as
to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two
lovers.&nbsp; When alone&mdash;and she was much alone&mdash;she would build
castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than
with gems and gold.&nbsp; The books she read, poor though they
generally were, left something bright on her imagination.&nbsp; She
fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright
part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one
since she was a child.&nbsp; Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made
her an offer.&nbsp; She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she
loved the man.&nbsp; And now she was with him alone!&nbsp; Now surely
had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might
be found to be built of real materials.

<p>"You know why I have come down here?" he said.

<p>"To see your cousin."

<p>"No, indeed.&nbsp; I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is
a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,&mdash;as cross as the mischief."

<p>"How disagreeable!"

<p>"Yes; he is disagreeable.&nbsp; I didn't come down to see him, I
can tell you.&nbsp; But when I heard that you were going to be here
with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once.&nbsp; I wonder
whether you are glad to see me?"

<p>"I don't know," said Marie, who could not at once find that
brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily
enough in her solitude.

<p>"Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?"

<p>"Did I say anything?&nbsp; I don't remember anything particular."

<p>"Do you not?&nbsp; Then I fear you can't think very much of
me."&nbsp; He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into
his mouth like a cherry.&nbsp; "I thought you told me that you would
love me."

<p>"Did I?"

<p>"Did you not?"

<p>"I don't know what I said.&nbsp; Perhaps if I said that, I didn't
mean it."

<p>"Am I to believe that?"

<p>"Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself."

<p>"By George, I did.&nbsp; I was quite in earnest.&nbsp; There never
was a fellow more in earnest than I was.&nbsp; I've come down here on
purpose to say it again."

<p>"To say what?"

<p>"Whether you'll accept me?"

<p>"I don't know whether you love me well enough."&nbsp; She longed
to be told by him that he loved her.&nbsp; He had no objection to
tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a
bore.&nbsp; All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle.&nbsp; He
desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it
possible, that she should have gone to her father for his
consent.&nbsp; There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of
Mr Melmotte which he almost feared.&nbsp; "Do you really love me well
enough?" she whispered.

<p>"Of course I do.&nbsp; I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all
that, but you know I love you."

<p>"Do you?"

<p>"By George, yes.&nbsp; I always liked you from the first moment I
saw you.&nbsp; I did indeed."

<p>It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed.&nbsp; "Then I
will love you," she said.&nbsp; "I will with all my heart."

<p>"There's a darling!"

<p>"Shall I be your darling?&nbsp; Indeed I will.&nbsp; I may call
you Felix now mayn't I?"

<p>"Rather."

<p>"Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me.&nbsp; I will so dote upon
you.&nbsp; You know a great many men have asked me to love them."

<p>"I suppose so."

<p>"But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least,&mdash;not
in the least."

<p>"You do care for me?"

<p>"Oh yes."&nbsp; She looked up into his beautiful face as she
spoke, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears.&nbsp; He
thought at the moment that she was very common to look at.&nbsp; As
regarded appearance only he would have preferred even Sophia
Longestaffe.&nbsp; There was indeed a certain brightness of truth
which another man might have read in Marie's mingled smiles and
tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him.&nbsp; They were
walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house, where they were
unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and
kissed her.&nbsp; "Oh, Felix," she said, giving her face up to him;
"no one ever did it before."&nbsp; He did not in the least believe
her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him.&nbsp;
"Say that you will be good to me, Felix.&nbsp; I will be so good to
you."

<p>"Of course I will be good to you."

<p>"Men are not always good to their wives.&nbsp; Papa is often very
cross to mamma."

<p>"I suppose he can be cross?"

<p>"Yes, he can.&nbsp; He does not often scold me.&nbsp; I don't know
what he'll say when we tell him about this."

<p>"But I suppose he intends that you shall be married?"

<p>"He wanted me to marry Lord Nidderdale and Lord Grasslough, but I
hated them both.&nbsp; I think he wants me to marry Lord Nidderdale
again now.&nbsp; He hasn't said so, but mamma tells me.&nbsp; But I
never will,&mdash;never!"

<p>"I hope not, Marie."

<p>"You needn't be a bit afraid.&nbsp; I would not do it if they were
to kill me.&nbsp; I hate him,&mdash;and I do so love you."&nbsp; Then she
leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his
beautiful face.&nbsp; "You will speak to papa; won't you?"

<p>"Will that be the best way?"

<p>"I suppose so.&nbsp; How else?"

<p>"I don't know whether Madame Melmotte ought not&mdash;"

<p>"Oh dear no.&nbsp; Nothing would induce her.&nbsp; She is more
afraid of him than anybody;&mdash;more afraid of him than I am.&nbsp; I
thought the gentleman always did that."

<p>"Of course I'll do it," said Sir Felix.&nbsp; "I'm not afraid of
him.&nbsp; Why should I?&nbsp; He and I are very good friends, you
know."

<p>"I'm glad of that."

<p>"He made me a Director of one of his companies the other day."

<p>"Did he?&nbsp; Perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law."

<p>"There's no knowing;&mdash;is there?"

<p>"I hope he will.&nbsp; I shall like you for papa's
son-in-law.&nbsp; I hope it isn't wrong to say that.&nbsp; Oh, Felix,
say that you love me."&nbsp; Then she put her face up towards his
again.

<p>"Of course I love you," he said, not thinking it worth his while
to kiss her.&nbsp; "It's no good speaking to him here.&nbsp; I
suppose I had better go and see him in the city."

<p>"He is in a good humour now," said Marie.

<p>"But I couldn't get him alone.&nbsp; It wouldn't be the thing to
do down here."

<p>"Wouldn't it?"

<p>"Not in the country,&mdash;in another person's house.&nbsp; Shall you
tell Madame Melmotte?"

<p>"Yes, I shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him.&nbsp;
Mamma does not care much about me.&nbsp; But I'll tell you all that
another time.&nbsp; Of course I shall tell you everything now.&nbsp;
I never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but I shall never be
tired of telling you."&nbsp; Then he left her as soon as he could,
and escaped to the other ladies.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was still sitting
in the summerhouse, and Lord Alfred was still with him, smoking and
drinking brandy and seltzer.&nbsp; As Sir Felix passed in front of
the great man he told himself that it was much better that the
interview should be postponed till they were all in London.&nbsp; Mr
Melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour.&nbsp; Sir
Felix said a few words to Lady Pomona and Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; Yes;
he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and
sister on the following day.&nbsp; He was aware that his cousin was
not coming.&nbsp; He believed that his cousin Roger never did go
anywhere like any one else.&nbsp; No; he had not seen Mr
Longestaffe.&nbsp; He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him
to-morrow.&nbsp; Then he escaped, and got on his horse, and rode away.

<p>"That's going to be the lucky man," said Georgiana to her mother,
that evening.

<p>"In what way lucky?"

<p>"He is going to get the heiress and all the money.&nbsp; What a
fool Dolly has been!"

<p>"I don't think it would have suited Dolly," said Lady
Pomona.&nbsp; "After all, why should not Dolly marry a lady?"
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="18"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.&nbsp; Ruby Ruggles Hears a Love Tale</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Ruby Ruggles, the granddaughter of old Daniel Ruggles, of Sheep's
Acre, in the parish of Sheepstone, close to Bungay, received the
following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier on
that Sunday morning;&mdash;"A friend will be somewhere near Sheepstone
Birches between four and five o'clock on Sunday afternoon."&nbsp;
There was not another word in the letter, but Miss Ruby Ruggles knew
well from whom it came.

<p>Daniel Ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of
considerable wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the
neighbourhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser.&nbsp;
His wife was dead;&mdash;he had quarrelled with his only son, whose wife
was also dead, and had banished him from his home;&mdash;his daughters
were married and away; and the only member of his family who lived
with him was his granddaughter Ruby.&nbsp; And this granddaughter was
a great trouble to the old man.&nbsp; She was twenty-three years old,
and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at Bungay in the meal
and pollard line, to whom old Ruggles had promised to give &pound;500 on
their marriage.&nbsp; But Ruby had taken it into her foolish young
head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now she had received
the above very dangerous letter.&nbsp; Though the writer had not
dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from Sir Felix
Carbury,&mdash;the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes
upon.&nbsp; Poor Ruby Ruggles!&nbsp; Living down at Sheep's Acre, on
the Waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great
world beyond her ken.&nbsp; There were, she thought, many glorious
things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her
early years to become the wife of John Crumb, the dealer in meal and
pollard at Bungay.&nbsp; Therefore she was full of a wild joy, half
joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore, punctually at
four o'clock on that Sunday she was ensconced among the Sheepstone
Birches, so that she might see without much danger of being
seen.&nbsp; Poor Ruby Ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of
herself at the time of her life in which she most required the
kindness of a controlling hand!

<p>Mr Ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is
called a bishop's lease, Sheep's Acre Farm being a part of the
property which did belong to the bishopric of Elmham, and which was
still set apart for its sustentation;&mdash;but he also held a small
extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the Carbury estate, so
that he was one of the tenants of Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Those
Sheepstone Birches, at which Felix made his appointment, belonged to
Roger.&nbsp; On a former occasion, when the feeling between the two
cousins was kinder than that which now existed, Felix had ridden over
with the landlord to call on the old man, and had then first seen
Ruby;&mdash;and had heard from Roger something of Ruby's history up to
that date.&nbsp; It had then been just made known that she was to
marry John Crumb.&nbsp; Since that time not a word had been spoken
between the men respecting the girl.&nbsp; Mr Carbury had heard, with
sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned,&mdash;but his
growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there
should be any conversation between them on the subject.&nbsp; Sir
Felix, however, had probably heard more of Ruby Ruggles than her
grandfather's landlord.

<p>There is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the
ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that
of such a girl as Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; The rural day labourer and his
wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the
eye.&nbsp; Their aspirations, whether for good or evil,&mdash;whether for
food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children, or
for drink first, to be come by either honestly or dishonestly,&mdash;are,
if looked at at all, fairly visible.&nbsp; And with the men of the
Ruggles class one can generally find out what they would be at, and
in what direction their minds are at work.&nbsp; But the Ruggles
woman,&mdash;especially the Ruggles young woman,&mdash;is better educated, has
higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more
cunning than the man.&nbsp; If she be good-looking and relieved from
the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as
unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which her
longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for
heaven.&nbsp; Her education has been much better than that of the
man.&nbsp; She can read, whereas he can only spell words from a
book.&nbsp; She can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can
barely spell words out on a paper.&nbsp; Her tongue is more glib, and
her intellect sharper.&nbsp; But her ignorance as to the reality of
things is much more gross than his.&nbsp; By such contact as he has
with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and
even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative
condition of his countrymen,&mdash;and, as to that which he does not
learn, his imagination is obtuse.&nbsp; But the woman builds castles
in the air, and wonders, and longs.&nbsp; To the young farmer the
squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way.&nbsp;
To the farmer's daughter the young squire is an Apollo, whom to look
at is a pleasure,&mdash;by whom to be looked at is a delight.&nbsp; The
danger for the most part is soon over.&nbsp; The girl marries after
her kind, and then husband and children put the matter at rest for
ever.

<p>A mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of Ruby Ruggles as
to the world beyond Suffolk and Norfolk it would be impossible to
find.&nbsp; But her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as
active as they were erroneous.&nbsp; Why should she with all her
prettiness, and all her cleverness,&mdash;with all her fortune to
boot,&mdash;marry that dustiest of all men, John Crumb, before she had
seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in
the books which came in her way?&nbsp; John Crumb was not bad-
looking.&nbsp; He was a sturdy, honest fellow, too,&mdash;slow of speech
but sure of his points when be had got them within his grip,&mdash;fond of
his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his
work.&nbsp; But though she had known him all her life she had never
known him otherwise than dusty.&nbsp; The meal had so gotten within
his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether
even on Sundays.&nbsp; His normal complexion was a healthy pallor,
through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make
themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his
hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than
a healthy young man.&nbsp; Nevertheless it was said of him that he
could thrash any man in Bungay, and carry two hundredweight of flour
upon his back.&nbsp; And Ruby also knew this of him,&mdash;that he
worshipped the very ground on which she trod.

<p>But, alas, she thought there might be something better than such
worship; and, therefore, when Felix Carbury came in her way, with his
beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair
and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for
love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she
thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of John
Crumb's honest promises.&nbsp; But, though she was an utter fool, she
was not a fool without a principle.&nbsp; She was miserably ignorant;
but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved
her to avoid.&nbsp; She thought, as the moths seem to think, that she
might fly into the flame and not burn her wings.&nbsp; After her
fashion she was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about
the farm on week days would see confined in curl-papers, and large
round dark eyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood
showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin.&nbsp; She was
strong, and healthy, and tall,&mdash;and had a will of her own which gave
infinite trouble to old Daniel Ruggles, her grandfather.

<p>Felix Carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that
he might return by Sheepstone Birches, which was a little copse
distant not above half a mile from Sheep's Acre farmhouse.&nbsp; A
narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road, by which there
was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which Sir Felix had
remembered when he made his appointment.&nbsp; The road was no more
than a country lane, unfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be
deserted on Sundays.&nbsp; He approached the gate in a walk, and then
stood awhile looking into the wood.&nbsp; He had not stood long
before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside
the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the ditch.&nbsp; Thinking
for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the
field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail which ran down
the side of the copse.&nbsp; Then he sauntered on till he stood
looking down upon Ruby Ruggles as she sat beneath the tree.&nbsp; "I
like your impudence," she said, "in calling yourself a friend."

<p>"Ain't I a friend, Ruby?"

<p>"A pretty sort of friend, you!&nbsp; When you was going away, you
was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,&mdash;oh, ever so
long ago now."

<p>"But I wrote to you, Ruby."

<p>"What's letters?&nbsp; And the postman to know all as in 'em for
anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see
'em.&nbsp; I don't call letters no good at all, and I beg you won't
write 'em any more."

<p>"Did he see them?"

<p>"No thanks to you if he didn't.&nbsp; I don't know why you are
come here, Sir Felix,&mdash;nor yet I don't know why I should come and
meet you.&nbsp; It's all just folly like."

<p>"Because I love you;&mdash;that's why I come; eh, Ruby?&nbsp; And you
have come because you love me; eh, Ruby?&nbsp; Is not that about
it?"&nbsp; Then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got
his arm round her waist.

<p>It would boot little to tell here all that they said to each
other.&nbsp; The happiness of Ruby Ruggles for that half-hour was no
doubt complete.&nbsp; She had her London lover beside her; and though
in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked
of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was
pretty.&nbsp; He probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little
about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the
proper sort of thing for a young man to do.&nbsp; He had begun to
think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies
were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half-hour was
over.&nbsp; She felt that she could be content to sit there for ever
and to listen to him.&nbsp; This was a realisation of those delights
of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which
she had gotten from the little circulating library at Bungay.

<p>But what was to come next?&nbsp; She had not dared to ask him to
marry her,&mdash;had not dared to say those very words; and he had not
dared to ask her to be his mistress.&nbsp; There was an animal
courage about her, and an amount of strength also, and a fire in her
eye, of which he had learned to be aware.&nbsp; Before the half-hour
was over I think that he wished himself away;&mdash;but when he did go, he
made a promise to see her again on the Tuesday morning.&nbsp; Her
grandfather would be at Harlestone market, and she would meet him at
about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden belonging to the
farm.&nbsp; As he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep
it.&nbsp; He would write to her again, and bid her come to him in
London, and would send her money for the journey.

<p>"I suppose I am to be his wedded wife," said Ruby to herself, as
she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home;&mdash;so
that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of
the young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the
road.&nbsp; "I'll never be nothing unless I'm that," she said to
herself.&nbsp; Then she allowed her mind to lose itself in
expatiating on the difference between John Crumb and Sir Felix
Carbury.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="19"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XIX.&nbsp; Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"I half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to his
mother that Sunday evening after dinner.&nbsp; At that moment Roger
was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own
room.

<p>"to-morrow morning, Felix!&nbsp; You are engaged to dine with the
Longestaffes!"

<p>"You could make any excuse you like about that."

<p>"It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world.&nbsp; The
Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the
country.&nbsp; No one knows what may happen.&nbsp; If you should ever
be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have
quarrelled with them."

<p>"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most
intimate friend I have in the world."

<p>"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and
mother.&nbsp; And you should remember what you came here for."

<p>"What did I come for?"

<p>"That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can
in their London house."

<p>"That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone
that he could assume.

"Settled!"

<p>"As far as the girl is concerned.&nbsp; I can't very well go to
the old fellow for his consent down here."

<p>"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?"

<p>"I told you that before."

<p>"My dear Felix.&nbsp; Oh, my boy!"&nbsp; In her joy the mother
took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him.&nbsp; Here was
the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent
splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and
herself to be envied by all mothers in England!&nbsp; "No, you didn't
tell me before.&nbsp; But I am so happy.&nbsp; Is she really fond of
you?&nbsp; I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you."

<p>"I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick
to it."

<p>"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last.&nbsp;
Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm.&nbsp; Why should he
oppose it?"

<p>"I don't know that he will."

<p>"You are a man of rank, with a title of your own.&nbsp; I suppose
what he wants is a gentleman for his girl.&nbsp; I don't see why he
should not be perfectly satisfied.&nbsp; With all his enormous wealth
a thousand a year or so can't make any difference.&nbsp; And then he
made you one of the Directors at his Board.&nbsp; Oh Felix;&mdash;it is
almost too good to be true."

<p>"I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you
know."

<p>"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that.&nbsp; Why shouldn't you like
being married?&nbsp; She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so
fond of her!&nbsp; Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you;
pray don't.&nbsp; You will be able to do just what you please when
once the question of her money is settled.&nbsp; Of course you can
hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of
London you please.&nbsp; You must understand by this time how very
disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income."

<p>"I quite understand that."

<p>"If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of
that kind.&nbsp; There would be plenty of money for everything as
long as you live.&nbsp; It would be complete success.&nbsp; I don't
know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly I love you,
or to make you understand how well I think you have done it
all."&nbsp; Then she caressed him again, and was almost beside
herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy.&nbsp; If, after all,
her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her great
trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the world as a
baronet with &pound;20,000 a year, how glorious would it be!&nbsp; She must
have known,&mdash;she did know,&mdash;how poor, how selfish a creature he
was.&nbsp; But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour
obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character
sometimes oppressed her.&nbsp; Were he to win this girl with all her
father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for
it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken
from her shoulders.&nbsp; But his magnificence would be
established.&nbsp; He was her son, and the prospect of his fortune
and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of
beautiful dreams.&nbsp; "But, Felix," she continued, "you really must
stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow.&nbsp; It will only be one
day.&nbsp; And now were you to run away&mdash;"

<p>"Run away!&nbsp; What nonsense you talk."

<p>"If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be
an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against
you.&nbsp; You should lay yourself out to please him;&mdash;indeed you
should."

<p>"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix.&nbsp; But nevertheless he allowed
himself to be persuaded to remain.&nbsp; The matter was important
even to him, and he consented to endure the almost unendurable
nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House.&nbsp; Lady
Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for
sympathy.&nbsp; If her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so
wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at
any rate consented to rejoice with her.&nbsp; Though he might not
like Felix,&mdash;who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to
her cousin,&mdash;he would have rejoiced for the sake of the family.&nbsp;
But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him.&nbsp; He would have
received her tidings with silent scorn.&nbsp; And even Henrietta
would not be enthusiastic.&nbsp; She felt that though she would have
delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at
present.&nbsp; It should now be her great effort to ingratiate
herself with Mr Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.

<p>During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his
cousin Hetta.&nbsp; There was not much conversation between them till
quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper.&nbsp; He had been
over at Bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking
Carbury on the way.&nbsp; "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger
asked him, rather imprudently.

<p>"Not much of him as a bishop.&nbsp; I don't doubt that he makes a
very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than
an average lord.&nbsp; But you don't put power or responsibility into
the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop."

<p>"Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him
in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him."

<p>"Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and
would not therefore desire to dominate theirs.&nbsp; Take any of your
bishops that has an opinion,&mdash;if there be one left,&mdash;and see how far
your clergy consent to his teaching!"&nbsp; Roger turned round and
took up his book.&nbsp; He was already becoming tired of his pet
priest.&nbsp; He himself always abstained from saying a word
derogatory to his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his
new friend did not by any means return the compliment.&nbsp; Perhaps
also Roger felt that were he to take up the cudgels for an argument
he might be worsted in the combat, as in such combats success is won
by practised skill rather than by truth.&nbsp; Henrietta was also
reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere,&mdash;wondering whether the
hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of dulness, in
which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at meal-times,
there was nothing to drink.&nbsp; But Lady Carbury was quite willing
to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the
dissemination of religion outside his own Church must be naught.

<p>"I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said
with her sweetest smile.

<p>"I'm sure I hope so.&nbsp; I have no possible reason to doubt it
as to the two or three whom I have seen,&mdash;nor indeed as to all the
rest whom I have not seen."

<p>"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"

<p>"I do not doubt it.&nbsp; Nothing tends so much to respect as a
good income.&nbsp; But they may be excellent men without being
excellent bishops.&nbsp; I find no fault with them, but much with the
system by which they are controlled.&nbsp; Is it probable that a man
should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he
has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the
leader of a majority in the House of Commons?"

<p>"Indeed, no," said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least
understand the nature of the question put to her.

<p>"And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should
be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own
to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his
duty?"

<p>"Hardly, indeed."

<p>"The English people, or some of them,&mdash;that some being the
richest, and, at present, the most powerful,&mdash;like to play at having
a Church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to
the control of a Church."

<p>"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr Barham?"

<p>"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you
make that profession.&nbsp; You declare it to be your duty to submit
yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters."

<p>"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury.&nbsp; "The
clergyman, in the catechism, says, "My good child.""

<p>"It is what you were taught as a child before you had made
profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know
your duty when you had ceased to be a child.&nbsp; I quite agree,
however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish
altogether, and intended only for children.&nbsp; As a rule, adults
with you want no religion."

<p>"I am afraid that is true of a great many."

<p>"It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should
not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,&mdash;unless,
indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity."

<p>"That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a
shudder.

<p>"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief,"
said the priest with energy;&mdash;"than a creed which sits so easily on a
man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks
himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or
incredible."

<p>"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the
book which he had in vain been trying to read.

<p>"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation
on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury.&nbsp; The priest drew himself
back into his chair and smiled.&nbsp; He was quite clever enough to
understand that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever
enough also to be aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness.&nbsp; But
Lady Carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood
nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might
possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at
present made him unwilling to hear arguments.

<p>"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger.

<p>"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of
it," said the priest.

<p>"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger,
rising from his chair.&nbsp; Upon this Father Barham look his
departure and walked away to Beccles.&nbsp; It might be that he had
sowed some seed.&nbsp; It might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed
some ground.&nbsp; Even the attempt to plough the ground was a good
work which would not be forgotten.

<p>The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for
repeating his suit to Henrietta.&nbsp; He had determined that it
should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue
during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would
do as he had determined.&nbsp; He was conscious, almost painfully
conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner
towards him.&nbsp; All that pride of independence, which had amounted
almost to roughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left
her.&nbsp; When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly
into his face.&nbsp; She cherished the flowers which he gave
her.&nbsp; He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish
in any matter about the house she would attend to it.&nbsp; There had
been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as
the hand of the clock.&nbsp; There was not a glance of her eye, nor a
turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as
regarded himself.&nbsp; But because she was tender to him and
observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her
heart was growing into love for him.&nbsp; He thought that he
understood the working of her mind.&nbsp; She could see how great was
his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her
mother's conduct.&nbsp; Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took
part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and
therefore,&mdash;in pity,&mdash;she was kind to him.&nbsp; It was thus he read
it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy.

<p>"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden
awhile."

<p>"Are not you going to the men?"

<p>"Not yet, at any rate.&nbsp; I do not always go to the men as you
call it."&nbsp; She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing
well that she had been summoned to hear the old story.&nbsp; She had
been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the
old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury;&mdash;and, up
to this time, she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would
give to it.&nbsp; That she could not take his offer, she thought she
did know.&nbsp; She knew well that she loved the other man.&nbsp;
That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that
she knew that he desired it.&nbsp; But in spite of all this there had
in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her
cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself
that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted
it.&nbsp; He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it
almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing
him.&nbsp; And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to
the Melmottes.&nbsp; Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr
Melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened.&nbsp; There
was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's
conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither
fear nor shame.&nbsp; Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever
because a girl could not love him,&mdash;a man born to be loved, if
nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely!

<p>"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here."&nbsp; She gave him her
arm.&nbsp; "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest.&nbsp; I
want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me."

<p>"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"

<p>"He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of
those things which we have been brought up to revere."&nbsp; So,
thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the
Church.&nbsp; "He ought not to say things before my guests as to our
way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to
his.&nbsp; I didn't quite like your hearing it."

<p>"I don't think he'll do me any harm.&nbsp; I'm not at all that way
given.&nbsp; I suppose they all do it.&nbsp; It's their business."

<p>"Poor fellow!&nbsp; I brought him here just because I thought it
was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see
the inside of a comfortable house."

<p>"I liked him;&mdash;only I didn't like his saying stupid things about
the bishop."

<p>"And I like him."&nbsp; Then there was a pause.&nbsp; "I suppose
your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs."

<p>"His own affairs, Roger?&nbsp; Do you mean money?&nbsp; He never
says a word to me about money."

<p>"I meant about the Melmottes."

<p>"No; not to me.&nbsp; Felix hardly ever speaks to me about
anything."

<p>"I wonder whether she has accepted him."

<p>"I think she very nearly did accept him in London."

<p>"I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings
about this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she
does the necessity of money."

<p>"Felix is so disposed to be extravagant."

<p>"Well; yes.&nbsp; But I was going to say that though I cannot
bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I
quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests."

<p>"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in
the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.

<p>"I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other
child would better repay her devotion,"&mdash;this he said, looking up to
Hetta and smiling,&mdash;"I quite feel how good a mother she is to
Felix.&nbsp; You know, when she first came the other day we almost
had a quarrel."

<p>"I felt that there was something unpleasant."

<p>"And then Felix coming after his time put me out.&nbsp; I am
getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things."

<p>"I think you are so good and so kind."&nbsp; As she said this she
leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she
loved him.

<p>"I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you
my father confessor.&nbsp; Open confession is good for the soul
sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your
mother."

<p>"I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to
confess."

<p>"You will not exact any penance?"&nbsp; She only looked at him and
smiled.&nbsp; "I am going to put a penance on myself all the
same.&nbsp; I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at
Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil
wish to him about things in general."

<p>"Will that be a penance?"

<p>"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would.&nbsp;
I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little
frivolous things.&nbsp; Didn't he throw his cigar on the path?&nbsp;
Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?"

<p>"But then he was travelling all the Saturday night."

<p>"Whose fault was that?&nbsp; But don't you see it is the
triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary.&nbsp;
Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house
down, I should have had a right to be angry.&nbsp; But I was angry
because he wanted a horse on Sunday;&mdash;and therefore I must do
penance."

<p>There was nothing of love in all this.&nbsp; Hetta, however, did
not wish him to talk of love.&nbsp; He was certainly now treating her
as a friend,&mdash;as a most intimate friend.&nbsp; If he would only do
that without making love to her, how happy could she be!&nbsp; But
his determination still held good.&nbsp; "And now," said he, altering
his tone altogether, "I must speak about myself."&nbsp; Immediately
the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened.&nbsp; Thereupon he
put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his.&nbsp; "No," he
said; "do not make any change towards me while I speak to you.&nbsp;
Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends."

<p>"Always friends!" she said.

<p>"Yes,&mdash;always friends.&nbsp; And now listen to me for I have much
to say.&nbsp; I will not tell you again that I love you.&nbsp; You
know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of
men.&nbsp; It is not only that I love you, but I am so accustomed to
concern myself with one thing only, so constrained by the habits and
nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that I
cannot as it were escape from my love.&nbsp; I am thinking of it
always, often despising myself because I think of it so much.&nbsp;
For, after all, let a woman be ever so good,&mdash;and you to me are all
that is good,&mdash;a man should not allow his love to dominate his
intellect."

<p>"Oh, no!"

<p>"I do.&nbsp; I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as
a man might calculate his chances of heaven.&nbsp; I should like you
to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together.&nbsp; I
would not win you by a lie if I could.&nbsp; I think of you more than
I ought to do.&nbsp; I am sure,&mdash;quite sure that you are the only
possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it.&nbsp; If I am
ever to live as other men do, and to care about the things which
other men care for, it must be as your husband."

<p>"Pray,&mdash;pray do not say that."

<p>"Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,&mdash;and a right to
expect that you should believe me.&nbsp; I will not ask you to be my
wife if you do not love me.&nbsp; Not that I should fear aught for
myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of
yourself because I am your friend and cousin.&nbsp; But I think it is
quite possible you might come to love me,&mdash;unless your heart be
absolutely given away elsewhere."

<p>"What am I to say?"

<p>"We each of us know of what the other is thinking.&nbsp; If Paul
Montague has robbed me of my love?"

<p>"Mr Montague has never said a word."

<p>"If he had, I think he would have wronged me.&nbsp; He met you in
my house, and I think must have known what my feelings were towards
you."

<p>"But he never has."

<p>"We have been like brothers together,&mdash;one brother being very much
older than the other, indeed; or like father and son.&nbsp; I think
he should place his hopes elsewhere."

<p>"What am I to say?&nbsp; If he have such hope he has not told
me.&nbsp; I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that
way."

<p>"Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you.&nbsp; Of course I
know the way of the world in such matters.&nbsp; I have no right to
ask you about Paul Montague,&mdash;no right to expect an answer.&nbsp; But
it is all the world to me.&nbsp; You can understand that I should
think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one
else."&nbsp; The tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time
full of entreaty.&nbsp; His eyes as he looked at her were bright with
love and anxiety.&nbsp; She not only believed him as to the tale
which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether.&nbsp; She
knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting
to it for comfort and protection in life.&nbsp; In that moment she
all but yielded to him.&nbsp; Had he seized her in his arms and
kissed her then, I think she would have yielded.&nbsp; She did all
but love him.&nbsp; She so regarded him that had it been some other
woman that he craved, she would have used every art she knew to have
backed his suit, and would have been ready to swear that any woman
was a fool who refused him.&nbsp; She almost hated herself because
she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness.&nbsp; As
it was, she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him
trembling.&nbsp; "I thought I would tell it you all, because I wish
you to know exactly the state of my mind.&nbsp; I would show you if I
could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass
case.&nbsp; Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it.&nbsp;
When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine
is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark,
for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think
you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish
scruple."

<p>"Oh, Roger!"

<p>"If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly,
remember my truth to you and say it boldly.&nbsp; I at least shall
never change.&nbsp; Of course if you love another man and give
yourself to him, it will be all over.&nbsp; Tell me that boldly
also.&nbsp; I have said it all now.&nbsp; God bless you, my own
heart's darling.&nbsp; I hope,&mdash;I hope I may be strong enough through
it all to think more of your happiness than of my own."&nbsp; Then he
parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of the bridges, and
leaving her to find her way into the house alone.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="20"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XX.&nbsp; Lady Pomona's Dinner Party</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Roger Carbury's half-formed plan of keeping Henrietta at home
while Lady Carbury and Sir Felix went to dine at Caversham fell to
the ground.&nbsp; It was to be carried out only in the event of
Hetta's yielding to his prayer.&nbsp; But he had in fact not made a
prayer, and Hetta had certainly yielded nothing.&nbsp; When the
evening came, Lady Carbury started with her son and daughter, and
Roger was left alone.&nbsp; In the ordinary course of his life he was
used to solitude.&nbsp; During the greater part of the year he would
eat and drink and live without companionship; so that there was to
him nothing peculiarly sad in this desertion.&nbsp; But on the
present occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the
loneliness of his lot in life.&nbsp; These cousins of his who were
his guests cared nothing for him.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had come to his
house simply that it might be useful to her; Sir Felix did not
pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy; and Hetta herself,
though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious
through pity rather than love.&nbsp; On this day he had, in truth,
asked her for nothing; but he had almost brought himself to think
that she might give all that he wanted without asking.&nbsp; And yet,
when he told her of the greatness of his love, and of its endurance,
she was simply silent.&nbsp; When the carriage taking them to dinner
went away down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front
of the house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling
himself that there was nothing left for him in life.

<p>If ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to Paul
Montague, and now Paul Montague was robbing him of everything he
valued in the world.&nbsp; His thoughts were not logical, nor was his
mind exact.&nbsp; The more he considered it, the stronger was his
inward condemnation of his friend.&nbsp; He had never mentioned to
any one the services he had rendered to Montague.&nbsp; In speaking
of him to Hetta he had alluded only to the affection which had
existed between them.&nbsp; But he felt that because of those
services his friend Montague had owed it to him not to fall in love
with the girl he loved; and he thought that if, unfortunately, this
had happened unawares, Montague should have retired as soon as he
learned the truth.&nbsp; He could not bring himself to forgive his
friend, even though Hetta had assured him that his friend had never
spoken to her of love.&nbsp; He was sore all over, and it was Paul
Montague who made him sore.&nbsp; Had there been no such man at
Carbury when Hetta came there, Hetta might now have been mistress of
the house.&nbsp; He sat there till the servant came to tell him that
his dinner was on the table.&nbsp; Then he crept in and ate,&mdash;so that
the man might not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a
book in his hand seeming to read.&nbsp; But he read not a word, for
his mind was fixed altogether on his cousin Hetta.&nbsp; "What a
poor creature a man is," he said to himself, "who is not sufficiently
his own master to get over a feeling like this."

<p>At Caversham there was a very grand party,&mdash;as grand almost as a
dinner party can be in the country.&nbsp; There were the Earl and
Countess of Loddon and Lady Jane Pewet from Loddon Park, and the
bishop and his wife, and the Hepworths.&nbsp; These, with the
Carburys and the parson's family, and the people staying in the
house, made twenty-four at the dinner table.&nbsp; As there were
fourteen ladies and only ten men, the banquet can hardly be said to
have been very well arranged.&nbsp; But those things cannot be done
in the country with the exactness which the appliances of London make
easy; and then the Longestaffes, though they were decidedly people of
fashion, were not famous for their excellence in arranging such
matters.&nbsp; If aught, however, was lacking in exactness, it was
made up in grandeur.&nbsp; There were three powdered footmen, and in
that part of the country Lady Pomona alone was served after this
fashion; and there was a very heavy butler, whose appearance of
itself was sufficient to give &eacute;clat to a family.&nbsp; The
grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas
and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered.&nbsp; It was not
above once in the year that this kind of thing vas done at Caversham;
but when it was done, nothing was spared which could contribute to
the magnificence of the f&ecirc;te.&nbsp; Lady Pomona and her two
tall daughters standing up to receive the little Countess of Loddon
and Lady Jane Pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat
smaller scale, while Madame Melmotte and Marie stood behind as though
ashamed of themselves, was a sight to see.&nbsp; Then the Carburys
came, and then Mrs Yeld with the bishop.&nbsp; The grand room was
soon fairly full; but nobody had a word to say.&nbsp; The bishop was
generally a man of much conversation, and Lady Loddon, if she were
well pleased with her listeners, could talk by the hour without
ceasing.&nbsp; But on this occasion nobody could utter a word.&nbsp;
Lord Loddon pottered about, making a feeble attempt, in which he was
seconded by no one.&nbsp; Lord Alfred stood, stock-still, stroking
his grey moustache with his hand.&nbsp; That much greater man,
Augustus Melmotte, put his thumbs into the arm-holes of his
waistcoat, and was impassible.&nbsp; The bishop saw at a glance the
hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt.&nbsp; The master
of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and then
devoted his mind to expectation of the next corner.&nbsp; Lady Pomona
and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and
dumb.&nbsp; In accordance with the treaty, Madame Melmotte had been
entertained civilly for four entire days.&nbsp; It could not be
expected that the ladies of Caversham should come forth unwearied
after such a struggle.

<p>When dinner was announced Felix was allowed to take in Marie
Melmotte.&nbsp; There can be no doubt but that the Caversham ladies
did execute their part of the treaty.&nbsp; They were led to suppose
that this arrangement would be desirable to the Melmottes, and they
made it.&nbsp; The great Augustus himself went in with Lady Carbury,
much to her satisfaction.&nbsp; She also had been dumb in the
drawing-room; but now, if ever, it would be her duty to exert
herself.&nbsp; "I hope you like Suffolk," she said.

<p>"Pretty well, I thank you.&nbsp; Oh, yes;&mdash;very nice place for a
little fresh air."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;that's just it, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; When the summer comes
one does long so to see the flowers."

<p>"We have better flowers in our balconies than any I see down
here," said Mr Melmotte.

<p>"No doubt;&mdash;because you can command the floral tribute of the
world at large.&nbsp; What is there that money will not do?&nbsp; It
can turn a London street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes
in Grosvenor Square."

<p>"It's a very nice place, is London."

<p>"If you have got plenty of money, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"And if you have not, it's the best place I know to get it.&nbsp;
Do you live in London, ma'am?"&nbsp; He had quite forgotten Lady
Carbury even if he had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of
hearing common to men, had not picked up her name when told to take
her out to dinner.&nbsp; "Oh, yes, I live in London.&nbsp; I have had
the honour of being entertained by you there."&nbsp; This she said
with her sweetest smile.

<p>"Oh, indeed.&nbsp; So many do come, that I don't always just
remember."

<p>"How should you,&mdash;with all the world flocking round you?&nbsp; I
am Lady Carbury, the mother of Sir Felix Carbury, whom I think you
will remember."

<p>"Yes; I know Sir Felix.&nbsp; He's sitting there, next to my
daughter."

<p>"Happy fellow!"

<p>"I don't know much about that.&nbsp; Young men don't get their
happiness in that way now.&nbsp; They've got other things to think
of."

<p>"He thinks so much of his business."

<p>"Oh!&nbsp; I didn't know," said Mr Melmotte.

<p>"He sits at the same Board with you, I think, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;that's his business!" said Mr Melmotte, with a grim smile.

<p>Lady Carbury was very clever as to many things, and was not
ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but
she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as
to the duties of those Directors of whom, from time to time, she saw
the names in a catalogue.&nbsp; "I trust that he is diligent there,"
she said; "and that he is aware of the great privilege which he
enjoys in having the advantage of your counsel and guidance."

<p>"He don't trouble me much, ma'am, and I don't trouble him
much."&nbsp; After this Lady Carbury said no more as to her son's
position in the city.&nbsp; She endeavoured to open various other
subjects of conversation; but she found Mr Melmotte to be heavy on
her hands.&nbsp; After a while she had to abandon him in despair, and
give herself up to raptures in favour of Protestantism at the bidding
of the Caversham parson, who sat on the other side of her, and who
had been worked to enthusiasm by some mention of Father Barham's
name.

<p>Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love.&nbsp;
"I have told mamma," Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner
with him.&nbsp; She was now full of the idea so common to girls who
are engaged,&mdash;and as natural as it is common,&mdash;that she might tell
everything to her lover.

<p>"Did she say anything?" he asked.&nbsp; Then Marie had to take her
place and arrange her dress before she could reply to him.&nbsp; "As
to her, I suppose it does not matter what she says, does it?"

<p>"She said a great deal.&nbsp; She thinks that papa will think you
are not rich enough.&nbsp; Hush!&nbsp; Talk about something else, or
people will hear."&nbsp; So much she had been able to say during the
bustle.

<p>Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed
the subject very willingly.&nbsp; "Have you been riding?" he asked.

<p>"No; I don't think there are horses here,&mdash;not for visitors, that
is.&nbsp; How did you get home?&nbsp; Did you have any adventures?"

<p>"None at all," said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; "I just
rode home quietly.&nbsp; I go to town to-morrow."

<p>"And we go on Wednesday.&nbsp; Mind you come and see us before
long."&nbsp; This she said bringing her voice down to a whisper.

<p>"Of course I shall.&nbsp; I suppose I'd better go to your father
in the city.&nbsp; Does he go every day?"

<p>"Oh yes, every day.&nbsp; He's back always about seven.&nbsp;
Sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes
he's very cross.&nbsp; He's best just after dinner.&nbsp; But it's so
hard to get to him then.&nbsp; Lord Alfred is almost always there;
and then other people come, and they play cards.&nbsp; I think the
city will be best."

<p>"You'll stick to it?" he asked.

<p>"Oh, yes;&mdash;indeed I will.&nbsp; Now that I've once said it nothing
will ever turn me.&nbsp; I think papa knows that."&nbsp; Felix looked
at her as she said this, and thought that he saw more in her
countenance than he had ever read there before.&nbsp; Perhaps she
would consent to run away with him; and, if so, being the only child,
she would certainly,&mdash;almost certainly,&mdash;be forgiven.&nbsp; But if he
were to run away with her and marry her, and then find that she were
not forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to starve without a
shilling of fortune, where would he be then?&nbsp; Looking at the
matter in all its bearings, considering among other things the
trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could
not afford to run away with her.

<p>After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,&mdash;the
same big room in which they had been assembled before the
feast,&mdash;seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation.&nbsp; Again nobody
talked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the
carriages were there to take them all home.&nbsp; "They arranged that
you should sit next to her," said Lady Carbury to her son, as they
were in the carriage.

<p>"Oh, I suppose that came naturally;&mdash;one young man and one young
woman, you know."

<p>"Those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it
unless they had thought that it would please Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; Oh,
Felix!&nbsp; if you can bring it about."

<p>"I shall if I can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it."

<p>"No, I won't.&nbsp; You cannot wonder that I should be
anxious.&nbsp; You behaved beautifully to her at dinner; I was so
happy to see you together.&nbsp; Good night, Felix, and God bless
you!" she said again, as they were parting for the night.&nbsp; "I
shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in England if this
comes about."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="21"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXI.&nbsp; Everybody Goes to Them</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When the Melmottes went from Caversham the house was very
desolate.&nbsp; The task of entertaining these people was indeed
over, and had the return to London been fixed for a certain near day,
there would have been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the
family.&nbsp; But this was so far from being the case that the
Thursday and Friday passed without anything being settled, and
dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia
Longestaffe.&nbsp; Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted
boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and sister
contemplated, was impossible.&nbsp; Their father, she thought, would
not dare to propose it.&nbsp; On each of these days,&mdash;three or four
times daily,&mdash;hints were given and questions were asked, but without
avail.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed
till he had received some particular letter, and would not even
listen to the suggestion of a day.&nbsp; "I suppose we can go at any
rate on Tuesday," Georgiana said on the Friday evening.&nbsp; "I
don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind," the father
replied.&nbsp; Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel
him to name a day; but Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the
request than her younger child, and at the same time less anxious for
its completion.&nbsp; On the Sunday morning before they went to
church there was a great discussion upstairs.&nbsp; The Bishop of
Elmham was going to preach at Caversham church, and the three ladies
were dressed in their best London bonnets.&nbsp; They were in their
mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of their
church-going toilet.&nbsp; It was supposed that the expected letter
had arrived.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe had certainly received a despatch
from his lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its
contents.&nbsp; He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast,
and,&mdash;so Sophia asserted,&mdash;more disagreeable than ever.&nbsp; The
question had now arisen especially in reference to their
bonnets.&nbsp; "You might as well wear them," said Lady Pomona, "for
I am sure you will not be in London again this year."

<p>"You don't mean it, mamma," said Sophia.

<p>"I do, my dear.&nbsp; He looked like it when he put those papers
back into his pocket.&nbsp; I know what his face means so well."

<p>"It is not possible," said Sophia.&nbsp; "He promised, and he got
us to have those horrid people because he promised."

<p>"Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I
suppose we must take his word for it.&nbsp; It is he must decide of
course.&nbsp; What he meant I suppose was, that he would take us back
if he could."

<p>"Mamma!" shouted Georgiana.&nbsp; Was there to be treachery not
only on the part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he
was, had bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in
their own camp!

<p>"My dear, what can we do?" said Lady Pomona.

<p>"Do!"&nbsp; Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly.&nbsp;
"Make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like
that.&nbsp; I'll do something, if that's going to be the way of
it.&nbsp; If he treats me like that I'll run off with the first man
that will take me, let him be who it may."

<p>"Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me."

<p>"I'll break his heart for him.&nbsp; He does not care about
us,&mdash;not the least,&mdash;whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares
very much about the family name.&nbsp; I'll tell him that I'm not
going to be a slave.&nbsp; I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll
stay down here."&nbsp; The younger Miss Longestaffe was lost in
passion at the prospect before her.

<p>"Oh, Georgey, don't say such horrid things as that," pleaded her
sister.

<p>"It's all very well for you, Sophy.&nbsp; You've got George
Whitstable."

<p>"I haven't got George Whitstable."

<p>"Yes, you have, and your fish is fried.&nbsp; Dolly does just what
he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes.&nbsp; Of course it
makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are."

<p>"You are very unjust," said Lady Pomona, wailing, "and you say
horrid things."

<p>"I ain't unjust at all.&nbsp; It doesn't matter to you.&nbsp; And
Sophy is the same as settled.&nbsp; But I'm to be sacrificed!&nbsp;
How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole?&nbsp; Papa
promised and he must keep his word."

<p>Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the
hall.&nbsp; "Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to
keep the carriage waiting all day?"&nbsp; Of course they were all
going to church.&nbsp; They always did go to church when they were at
Caversham; and would more especially do so to-day, because of the
bishop and because of the bonnets.&nbsp; They trooped down into the
hall and into the carriage, Lady Pomona leading the way.&nbsp;
Georgiana stalked along, passing her father at the front door without
condescending to look at him.&nbsp; Not a word was spoken on the way
to church, or on the way home.&nbsp; During the service Mr
Longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated the
responses in a loud voice.&nbsp; In performing this duty he had been
an example to the parish all his life.&nbsp; The three ladies knelt
on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the
sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of
attention.&nbsp; They did not collect the meaning of any one
combination of sentences.&nbsp; It was nothing to them whether the
bishop had or had not a meaning.&nbsp; Endurance of that kind was
their strength.&nbsp; Had the bishop preached for forty-five minutes
instead of half an hour they would not have complained.&nbsp; It was
the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year
to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort.&nbsp; She could put
up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of obtaining
ultimate relief were not denied to her.&nbsp; But to be kept at
Caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach
for ever!&nbsp; After the service they came back to lunch, and that
meal also was eaten in silence.&nbsp; When it was over the head of
the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently
meaning to be left alone there.&nbsp; In that case he would have
meditated upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have
thus got through the afternoon with comfort.&nbsp; But this was
denied to him.&nbsp; The two daughters remained steadfast while the
things were being removed; and Lady Pomona, though she made one
attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters
would not follow her.&nbsp; Georgiana had told her sister that she
meant to "have it out" with her father, and Sophia had of course
remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest.&nbsp; When
the last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began.&nbsp; "Papa, don't
you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town?&nbsp;
Of course we want to know about engagements and all that.&nbsp; There
is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday.&nbsp; We promised to be there
ever so long ago."

<p>"You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your
engagement."

<p>"But why not, papa?&nbsp; We could go up on Wednesday morning."

<p>"You can't do anything of the kind."

<p>"But, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said Lady
Pomona.&nbsp; Then there was a pause.&nbsp; Even Georgiana, in her
present state of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some
undefined time, as a compromise.

<p>"Then you can't have a day fixed," said Mr Longestaffe.

<p>"How long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?" said Sophia,
in a low constrained voice.

<p>"I do not know what you mean by being kept here.&nbsp; This is
your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live."

<p>"But we are to go back?" demanded Sophia.&nbsp; Georgiana stood by
in silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time.

<p>"You'll not return to London this season," said Mr Longestaffe,
turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands.

<p>"Do you mean that that is settled?" said Lady Pomona.&nbsp; "I
mean to say that that is settled," said Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; Was
there ever treachery like this!&nbsp; The indignation in Georgiana's
mind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's
falseness.&nbsp; She would not have left town at all but for that
promise.&nbsp; She would not have contaminated herself with the
Melmottes but for that promise.&nbsp; And now she was told that the
promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible
that she could get back to London,&mdash;even to the house of the hated
Primeros,&mdash;without absolutely running away from her father's
residence!&nbsp; "Then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you
have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us."

<p>"How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!"

<p>"I am not a child, papa, as you know very well.&nbsp; I am my own
mistress,&mdash;by law."

<p>"Then go and be your own mistress.&nbsp; You dare to tell me, your
father, that I have premeditated a falsehood!&nbsp; If you tell me
that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them
in this house."

<p>"Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down
and entertain these people?"

<p>"I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you
are.&nbsp; If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your
mother.&nbsp; It should be enough for you that I, your father, tell
you that you have to live here.&nbsp; Now go away, and if you choose
to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you."&nbsp;
Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched
majestically out of the room.&nbsp; She still meditated revenge, but
she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her father's presence to go
on with her reproaches.&nbsp; She stalked off into the room in which
they generally lived, and there she stood panting with anger,
breathing indignation through her nostrils.

<p>"And you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said.

<p>"What can we do, my dear?"

<p>"I will do something.&nbsp; I'm not going to be cheated and
swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain.&nbsp; I have
always behaved well to him.&nbsp; I have never run up bills without
saying anything about them."&nbsp; This was a cut at her elder
sister, who had once got into some little trouble of that kind.&nbsp;
"I have never got myself talked about with anybody.&nbsp; If there is
anything to be done I always do it.&nbsp; I have written his letters
for him till I have been sick, and when you were ill I never asked
him to stay out with us after two or half-past two at the
latest.&nbsp; And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my
bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us
back to London!&nbsp; Did he not promise, mamma?"

<p>"I understood so, my dear."

<p>"You know he promised, mamma.&nbsp; If I do anything now he must
bear the blame of it.&nbsp; I am not going to keep myself straight
for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way."

<p>"You do that for your own sake, I suppose," said her sister.

<p>"It is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake," said
Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair,&mdash;to an ancient flirtation,
in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a
futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private
fortune was very moderate.&nbsp; Ten years had passed since that, and
the affair was never alluded to except in moments of great
bitterness.

<p>"I've kept myself as straight as you have," said Sophia.&nbsp;
"It's easy enough to be straight, when a person never cares for
anybody, and nobody cares for a person."

<p>"My dears, if you quarrel what am I to do?" said their mother.

<p>"It is I that have to suffer," continued Georgiana.&nbsp; "Does he
expect me to find anybody here that I could take?&nbsp; Poor George
Whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all."

<p>"You may have him if you like," said Sophia, with a chuck of her
head.

<p>"Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all.&nbsp; I
haven't come to that quite yet."

<p>"You were talking of running away with somebody."

<p>"I shan't run away with George Whitstable; you may be sure of
that.&nbsp; I'll tell you what I shall do,&mdash;I will write papa a
letter.&nbsp; I suppose he'll condescend to read it.&nbsp; If he
won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the
Primeros.&nbsp; What makes me most angry in the whole thing is that
we should have condescended to be civil to the Melmottes down in the
country.&nbsp; In London one does those things, but to have them here
was terrible!"

<p>During that entire afternoon nothing more was said.&nbsp; Not a
word passed between them on any subject beyond those required by the
necessities of life.&nbsp; Georgiana had been as hard to her sister
as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the
affront.&nbsp; She was now almost reconciled to the sojourn in the
country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and
the presence of Mr Whitstable at a distance of not more than ten
miles did of course make a difference to herself.&nbsp; Lady Pomona
complained of a headache, which was always an excuse with her for not
speaking;&mdash;and Mr Longestaffe went to sleep.&nbsp; Georgiana during
the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the next morning the head
of the family found the following letter on his dressing-table:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
My DEAR PAPA<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I don't think you ought to be surprised
because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to
us.&nbsp; If we are not to be in London at this time of the year we
can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for
me.&nbsp; If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her,
and, though mamma likes London, it is not of real importance.&nbsp;
But it is very, very hard upon me.&nbsp; It isn't for pleasure that I
want to go up.&nbsp; There isn't so very much pleasure in it.&nbsp;
But if I'm to be buried down here at Caversham, I might just as well
be dead at once.&nbsp; If you choose to give up both houses for a
year, or for two years, and take us all abroad, I should not grumble
in the least.&nbsp; There are very nice people to be met abroad, and
perhaps things go easier that way than in town.&nbsp; And there would
be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old
things.&nbsp; I'm sure I don't want to run up bills.&nbsp; But if you
would only think what Caversham must be to me, without any one worth
thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay
here.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You certainly did say that if we would
come down here with those Melmottes we should be taken back to town,
and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we
are told that we are to be kept here after that.&nbsp; It makes me
feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it.&nbsp; I see other
girls having such chances when I have none, that sometimes I think I
don't know what will happen to me."&nbsp;</i> [This was the nearest
approach which she dared to make in writing to that threat which she
had uttered to her mother of running away with somebody.]&nbsp; <i>"I
suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back
this summer,&mdash;though it was promised; but I hope you'll give me money
to go up to the Primeros.&nbsp; It would only be me and my
maid.&nbsp; Julia Primero asked me to stay with them when you first
talked of not going up, and I should not in the least object to
reminding her, only it should be done at once.&nbsp; Their house in
Queen's Gate is very large, and I know they've a room.&nbsp; They all
ride, and I should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as
they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides with Julia
would do for both of us.&nbsp; Pray answer this at once, papa.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate daughter,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Mr Longestaffe did condescend to read the letter.&nbsp; He, though
he had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to
some extent afraid of her.&nbsp; At a sudden burst he could stand
upon his authority, and assume his position with parental dignity;
but not the less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic
strife.&nbsp; He thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row
in the house.&nbsp; If not, there surely would not be so many
rows.&nbsp; He himself thoroughly hated them.&nbsp; He had not any
very lively interest in life.&nbsp; He did not read much; he did not
talk much; he was not specially fond of eating and drinking; he did
not gamble, and he did not care for the farm.&nbsp; To stand about
the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which he belonged
and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better
than anything else in the world.&nbsp; But he was quite willing to
give this up for the good of his family.&nbsp; He would be contented
to drag through long listless days at Caversham, and endeavour to
nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it.&nbsp; By
assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether
unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's
heads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving,
the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into
debt.&nbsp; His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought
that this was the way to get it.&nbsp; A separate property had come
to his son from his wife's mother,&mdash;some &pound;2,000 or &pound;3,000 a year,
magnified by the world into double its amount,&mdash;and the knowledge of
this had for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the
family estates.&nbsp; He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age,
would have consented to sell the Sussex property in order that the
Suffolk property might be relieved.&nbsp; But Dolly was now in debt
himself, and though in other respects the most careless of men, was
always on his guard in any dealings with his father.&nbsp; He would
not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless half of the
proceeds were to be at once handed to himself.&nbsp; The father could
not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it, found
the troubles of the world very hard upon him.&nbsp; Melmotte had done
something for him,&mdash;but in doing this Melmotte was very hard and
tyrannical.&nbsp; Melmotte, when at Caversham, had looked into his
affairs, and had told him very plainly that with such an
establishment in the country he was not entitled to keep a house in
town.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe had then said something about his
daughters,&mdash;something especially about Georgiana,&mdash;and Mr Melmotte
had made a suggestion.

<p>Mr Longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for
her, in spite of his anger.&nbsp; But if there was one man he hated
more than another, it was his neighbour Mr Primero; and if one woman,
it was Mrs Primero.&nbsp; Primero, whom Mr Longestaffe regarded as
quite an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man
anything.&nbsp; He paid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the
squire of Caversham without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in
that direction.&nbsp; He had spent many thousands for his party in
county elections and borough elections, and was now himself member
for a metropolitan district.&nbsp; He was a radical, of course, or,
according to Mr Longestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted
and voted on the radical side because there was nothing to be got by
voting and acting on the other.&nbsp; And now there had come into
Suffolk a rumour that Mr Primero was to have a peerage.&nbsp; To
others the rumour was incredible, but Mr Longestaffe believed it, and
to Mr Longestaffe that belief was an agony.&nbsp; A Baron Bundlesham
just at his door, and such a Baron Bundlesham, would be more than Mr
Longestaffe could endure.&nbsp; It was quite impossible that his
daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros.

<p>But another suggestion had been made.&nbsp; Georgiana's letter had
been laid on her father's table on the Monday morning.&nbsp; On the
following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with
London by letter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her, and
handed her a note to read.&nbsp; "Your papa has this moment given it
me.&nbsp; Of course you must judge for yourself."&nbsp; This was the
note;&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR MR LONGESTAFFE,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps
one of your young ladies would like to come to us.&nbsp; Mrs Melmotte would
be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July.&nbsp; If so, she need
only give Mrs Melmotte a day's notice.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours truly,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of
note paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the
date.&nbsp; It was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left
in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit.&nbsp; She
breathed very hard.&nbsp; Both her father and mother had heard her
speak of these Melmottes, and knew what she thought of them.&nbsp;
There was an insolence in the very suggestion.&nbsp; But at the first
moment she said nothing of that.&nbsp; "Why shouldn't I go to the
Primeros?" she asked.

<p>"Your father will not hear of it.&nbsp; He dislikes them
especially."

<p>"And I dislike the Melmottes.&nbsp; I dislike the Primeros of
course, but they are not so bad as the Melmottes.&nbsp; That would be
dreadful."

<p>"You must judge for yourself; Georgiana."

<p>"It is that,&mdash;or staying here?"

<p>"I think so, my dear."

<p>"If papa chooses I don't know why I am to mind.&nbsp; It will be
awfully disagreeable,&mdash;absolutely disgusting!"

<p>"She seemed to be very quiet."

<p>"Pooh, mamma!&nbsp; Quiet!&nbsp; She was quiet here because she
was afraid of us.&nbsp; She isn't yet used to be with people like
us.&nbsp; She'll get over that if I'm in the house with her.&nbsp;
And then she is, oh!&nbsp; so frightfully vulgar!&nbsp; She must have
been the very sweeping of the gutters.&nbsp; Did you not see it,
mamma?&nbsp; She could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of
herself.&nbsp; I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something
quite horrid.&nbsp; They make me shudder.&nbsp; Was there ever
anything so dreadful to look at as he is?"

<p>"Everybody goes to them," said Lady Pomona.&nbsp; "The Duchess of
Stevenage has been there over and over again, and so has Lady Auld
Reekie.&nbsp; Everybody goes to their house."

<p>"But everybody doesn't go and live with them.&nbsp; Oh, mamma,&mdash;to
have to sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man
and that woman!"

<p>"Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast upstairs."

<p>"But to have to go out with them;&mdash;walking into the room after
her!&nbsp; Only think of it!"

<p>"But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear."

<p>"Of course I am anxious.&nbsp; What other chance have I,
mamma?&nbsp; And, oh dear, I am so tired of it!&nbsp; Pleasure,
indeed!&nbsp; Papa talks of pleasure.&nbsp; If papa had to work half
as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think of it.&nbsp; I suppose I
must do it.&nbsp; I know it will make me so ill that I shall almost
die under it.&nbsp; Horrid, horrid people!&nbsp; And papa to propose
it, who has always been so proud of everything,&mdash;who used to think so
much of being with the right set"

<p>"Things are changed, Georgiana," said the anxious mother.

<p>"Indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people
like that.&nbsp; Why, mamma, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine
gentleman compared with Mr Melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady
compared with Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; But I'll go.&nbsp; If papa
chooses me to be seen with such people it is not my fault.&nbsp;
There will be no disgracing one's self after that.&nbsp; I don't
believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in
such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if I take some
horrid creature from the Stock Exchange.&nbsp; Papa has altered his
ideas; and so, I suppose, I had better alter mine."

<p>Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona
informed Mr Longestaffe that Mr Melmotte's invitation was to be
accepted.&nbsp; She herself would write a line to Madame Melmotte,
and Georgiana would go up on the Friday following.&nbsp; "I hope
she'll like it," said Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; The poor man had no
intention of irony.&nbsp; It was not in his nature to be severe after
that fashion.&nbsp; But to poor Lady Pomona the words sounded very
cruel.&nbsp; How could any one like to live in a house with Mr and
Madame Melmotte!

<p>On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the
two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway
station, which was almost touching.&nbsp; She had endeavoured to hold
up her head as usual, but had failed.&nbsp; The thing that she was
going to do cowed her even in the presence of her sister.&nbsp;
"Sophy, I do so envy you staying here."

<p>"But it was you who were so determined to be in London."

<p>"Yes; I was determined, and am determined.&nbsp; I've got to get
myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here.&nbsp; But
you are not going to disgrace yourself."

<p>"There's no disgrace in it, Georgey."

<p>"Yes, there is.&nbsp; I believe the man to be a swindler and a
thief; and I believe her to be anything low that you can think
of.&nbsp; As to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is
monstrous.&nbsp; The footmen and housemaids would be much better."

<p>"Then don't go, Georgey."

<p>"I must go.&nbsp; It's the only chance that is left.&nbsp; If I
were to remain down here everybody would say that I was on the
shelf.&nbsp; You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very
well.&nbsp; It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and
Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow."

<p>"Is he, now?"

<p>"Of course he hasn't much to say for himself; for he's always at
home.&nbsp; But he is a gentleman."

<p>"That he certainly is."

<p>"As for me I shall give over caring about gentlemen now.&nbsp; The
first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, I'll
take him, though he'd come out of Newgate or Bedlam.&nbsp; And I
shall always say it has been papa's doing."

<p>And so Georgiana Longestaffe went up to London and stayed with the
Melmottes.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="22"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXII.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale's Morality</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It was very generally said in the city about this time that the
Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best
thing out.&nbsp; It was known that Mr Melmotte had gone into it with
heart and hand.&nbsp; There were many who declared,&mdash;with gross
injustice to the Great Fisker,&mdash;that the railway was Melmotte's own
child, that he had invented it, advertised it, agitated it, and
floated it; but it was not the less popular on that account.&nbsp; A
railway from Salt Lake City to Mexico no doubt had much of the
flavour of a castle in Spain.&nbsp; Our far-western American brethren
are supposed to be imaginative.&nbsp; Mexico has not a reputation
among us for commercial security, or that stability which produces
its four, five, or six per cent, with the regularity of
clockwork.&nbsp; But there was the Panama railway, a small affair
which had paid twenty-five per cent.; and there was the great line
across the continent to San Francisco, in which enormous fortunes had
been made.&nbsp; It came to be believed that men with their eyes open
might do as well with the Great South Central as had ever been done
before with other speculations, and this belief was no doubt founded
on Mr Melmotte's partiality for the enterprise.&nbsp; Mr Fisker had
"struck 'ile" when he induced his partner, Montague, to give him a
note to the great man.

<p>Paul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man
having his eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn
how the thing was progressing.&nbsp; At the regular meetings of the
Board, which never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers
were read by Miles Grendall.&nbsp; Melmotte himself would speak a few
slow words, intended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph,
and then everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign
something, and the "Board" for that day would be over.&nbsp; To Paul
Montague this was very unsatisfactory.&nbsp; More than once or twice
he endeavoured to stay the proceedings, not as disapproving, but
simply as desirous of being made to understand; but the silent scorn
of his chairman put him out of countenance, and the opposition of his
colleagues was a barrier which he was not strong enough to
overcome.&nbsp; Lord Alfred Grendall would declare that he "did not
think all that was at all necessary."&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale, with
whom Montague had now become intimate at the Beargarden, would nudge
him in the ribs and bid him hold his tongue.&nbsp; Mr Cohenlupe would
make a little speech in fluent but broken English, assuring the
Committee that everything was being done after the approved city
fashion.&nbsp; Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, was never
there.&nbsp; And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdened
conscience, was carried along as one of the Directors of the Great
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company.

<p>I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or
heavier, by the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was
certainly very comfortable.&nbsp; The Company had not yet been in
existence quite six weeks,&mdash;or at any rate Melmotte had not been
connected with it above that time,&mdash;and it had already been suggested
to him twice that he should sell fifty shares at &pound;112 10s.&nbsp; He
did not even yet know how many shares he possessed, but on both
occasions he consented to the proposal, and on the following day
received a cheque for &pound;625,&mdash;that sum representing the profit over
and above the original nominal price of &pound;100 a share.&nbsp; The
suggestion was made to him by Miles Grendall, and when he asked some
questions as to the manner in which the shares had been allocated, he
was told that all that would be arranged in accordance with the
capital invested and must depend on the final disposition of the
Californian property.&nbsp; "But from what we see, old fellow," said
Miles, "I don't think you have anything to fear.&nbsp; You seem to be
about the best in of them all.&nbsp; Melmotte wouldn't advise you to
sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain
income as far as you are concerned."

<p>Paul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was
standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any
moment.&nbsp; The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the
dishonesty, of the whole thing, made him often very miserable.&nbsp;
In those wretched moments his conscience was asserting itself.&nbsp;
But again there were times in which he also was almost triumphant,
and in which he felt the delight of his wealth.&nbsp; Though he was
snubbed at the Board when he wanted explanations, he received very
great attention outside the board-room from those connected with the
enterprise.&nbsp; Melmotte had asked him to dine two or three
times.&nbsp; Mr Cohenlupe had begged him to go down to his little
place at Rickmansworth,&mdash;an entreaty with which Montague had not as
yet complied.&nbsp; Lord Alfred was always gracious to him, and
Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him one of
their set at the club.&nbsp; Many other houses became open to him
from the same source.&nbsp; Though Melmotte was supposed to be the
inventor of the railway, it was known that Fisker, Montague, and
Montague were largely concerned in it, and it was known also that
Paul Montague was one of the Montagues named in that firm.&nbsp;
People, both in the City and the West End, seemed to think that he
knew all about it, and treated him as though some of the manna
falling from that heaven were at his disposition.&nbsp; There were
results from this which were not unpleasing to the young man.&nbsp;
He only partially resisted the temptation; and though determined at
times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so determined only at
times.&nbsp; The money was very pleasant to him.&nbsp; The period
would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be
pledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carbury; and when
that period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to
know that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to
give a wife a comfortable home.&nbsp; In all his aspirations, and in
all his fears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre
of his hopes.&nbsp; Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, it may
be feared that she would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him
from her heart.

<p>There was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the
Directors, and a disposition to complain against the Grand Director,
arising from a grievance altogether different from that which
afflicted Montague.&nbsp; Neither had Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord
Nidderdale been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of
them had received any remuneration for the use of their names.&nbsp;
They knew well that Montague had sold shares.&nbsp; He was quite open
on the subject, and had told Felix, whom he hoped some day to regard
as his brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how
much;&mdash;and the two men had endeavoured to make the matter
intelligible between themselves.&nbsp; The original price of the
shares being &pound;100 each, and &pound;12 10s. a share having been paid to
Montague as the premium, it was to be supposed that the original
capital was re-invested in other shares.&nbsp; But each owned to the
other that the matter was very complicated to him, and Montague could
only write to Hamilton K. Fisker at San Francisco asking for
explanation.&nbsp; As yet he had received no answer.&nbsp; But it was
not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands which embittered
Nidderdale and Carbury.&nbsp; They understood that he had really
brought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to take
money out of it.&nbsp; Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmotte
his more noble pickings, for they knew how great a man was
Melmotte.&nbsp; Of Cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he was
a regular city man, and had probably supplied funds.&nbsp; Cohenlupe
was too deep for their inquiry.&nbsp; But they knew that Lord Alfred
had sold shares, and had received the profit; and they knew also how
utterly impossible it was that Lord Alfred should have produced
capital.&nbsp; If Lord Alfred Grendall was entitled to plunder, why
were not they?&nbsp; And if their day for plunder had not yet come,
why Lord Alfred's?&nbsp; And if there was so much cause to fear Lord
Alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone, why should not they
also make themselves feared?&nbsp; Lord Alfred passed all his time
with Melmotte,&mdash;had, as these young men said, become Melmotte's head
valet,&mdash;and therefore had to be paid.&nbsp; But that reason did not
satisfy the young men.

<p>"You haven't sold any shares;&mdash;have you?"&nbsp; This question Sir
Felix asked Lord Nidderdale at the club.&nbsp; Nidderdale was
constant in his attendance at the Board, and Felix was not a little
afraid that he might be jockied also by him.

<p>"Not a share."

<p>"Nor got any profits?"

<p>"Not a shilling of any kind.&nbsp; As far as money is concerned my
only transaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner."

<p>"What do you get then, by going into the city?" asked Sir Felix.

<p>"I'm blessed if I know what I get.&nbsp; I suppose something will
turn up some day."

<p>"In the meantime, you know, there are our names.&nbsp; And
Grendall is making a fortune out of it."

<p>"Poor old duffer," said his lordship.&nbsp; "If he's doing so
well, I think Miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he
owes.&nbsp; I think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to
have the money ready when that bill of Vossner's comes round."

<p>"Yes, by George; let's tell him that.&nbsp; Will you do it?"

<p>"Not that it will be the least good.&nbsp; It would be quite
unnatural to him to pay anything."

<p>"Fellows used to pay their gambling debts," said Sir Felix, who
was still in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of
I.O.U.'s.

<p>"They don't now,&mdash;unless they like it.&nbsp; How did a fellow
manage before, if he hadn't got it?"

<p>"He went smash," said Sir Felix, "and disappeared and was never
heard of any more.&nbsp; It was just the same as if he'd been found
cheating.&nbsp; I believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say
anything!"

<p>"I shouldn't," said Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; "What's the use of
being beastly ill-natured?&nbsp; I'm not very good at saying my
prayers, but I do think there's something in that bit about forgiving
people.&nbsp; Of course cheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very
nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can't pay; but I don't
know that it's worse than getting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or
quarrelling with everybody as Grasslough does,&mdash;or trying to marry
some poor devil of a girl merely because she's got money.&nbsp; I
believe in living in glass houses, but I don't believe in throwing
stones.&nbsp; Do you ever read the Bible, Carbury?"

<p>"Read the Bible!&nbsp; Well;&mdash;yes;&mdash;no;&mdash;that is, I suppose, I
used to do."

<p>"I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone
and pitch it at that woman.&nbsp; Live and let live;&mdash;that's my
motto."

<p>"But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?"
said Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be
carried too far.

<p>"Oh, certainly.&nbsp; I'll let old Grendall live with all my
heart; but then he ought to let me live too.&nbsp; Only, who's to
bell the cat?"

<p>"What cat?"

<p>"It's no good our going to old Grendall," said Lord Nidderdale,
who had some understanding in the matter, "nor yet to young
Grendall.&nbsp; The one would only grunt and say nothing, and the
other would tell every lie that came into his head.&nbsp; The cat in
this matter I take to be our great master, Augustus Melmotte."

<p>This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's
return from Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the
great duty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his
marriage with Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; In doing that he would have to
put one bell on the cat, and he thought that for the present that was
sufficient.&nbsp; In his heart of hearts he was afraid of
Melmotte.&nbsp; But, then, as be knew very well, Nidderdale was
intent on the same object.&nbsp; Nidderdale, he thought, was a very
queer fellow.&nbsp; That talking about the Bible, and the forgiving
of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to the marrying of
heiresses very queer indeed.&nbsp; He knew that Nidderdale wanted to
marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that he wanted to
marry her.&nbsp; And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk
about it!&nbsp; And now the man asked who should bell the cat!&nbsp;
"You go there oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best,"
said Sir Felix.

<p>"Go where?"

<p>"To the Board."

<p>"But you're always at his house.&nbsp; He'd be civil to me,
perhaps, because I'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd
think I was the bigger fool of the two."

<p>"I don't see that at all," said Sir Felix.

<p>"I ain't afraid of him, if you mean that," continued Lord
Nidderdale.&nbsp; "He's a wretched old reprobate, and I don't doubt
but he'd skin you and me if he could make money off our
carcases.&nbsp; But as he can't skin me, I'll have a shy at
him.&nbsp; On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I've
always been on the square with him.&nbsp; If it depended on him, you
know, I should have the girl to-morrow."

<p>"Would you?"&nbsp; Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his
friend's assertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a
statement.

<p>"But then she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want
her.&nbsp; Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money
wasn't all there?"&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving
the baronet in a deep study of thought as to such a condition of
things as that which his lordship had suggested.&nbsp; Where
the &#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; mischief would he, Sir Felix
Carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the
money was not all there?

<p>On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went
to the great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that he
walked with the great man to the Board meeting.&nbsp; Melmotte was
always very gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never,
up to this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about
business.&nbsp; "I wanted just to ask you something," said the lord,
hanging on the chairman's arm.

<p>"Anything you please, my lord."

<p>"Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to
sell?"

<p>"No, I don't,&mdash;if you ask me."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;I didn't know.&nbsp; But why shouldn't we as well as the
others?"

<p>"Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?"

<p>"Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have.&nbsp; How
much has Lord Alfred put into it?"

<p>"<b>I</b> have taken shares for Lord Alfred," said Melmotte,
putting very heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun.&nbsp; "If it
suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do
so without asking your lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix
Carbury."

<p>"Oh, certainly.&nbsp; I don't want to make inquiry as to what you
do with your money."

<p>"I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more
about it.&nbsp; You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it
will come all right.&nbsp; If you've got a few thousand pounds loose,
and will put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and,
if the shares are up, can sell at a profit.&nbsp; It's presumed just
at present that, at some early day, you'll qualify for your
directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are
allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you."

<p>"That's it, is it?" said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand
all about it.

<p>"If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you
can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;&mdash;that
is, if your father consents to a proper settlement."

<p>"I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure," said Nidderdale. Thank
you; I'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all
to Carbury."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="23"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXIII.&nbsp; "Yes;&mdash;I'm a Baronet"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>How eager Lady Carbury was that her son should at once go in form
to Marie's father and make his proposition may be easily
understood.&nbsp; "My dear Felix," she said, standing over his
bedside a little before noon, "pray don't put it off; you don't know
how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip."

<p>"It's everything to get him in a good humour," pleaded Sir Felix.

<p>"But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used."

<p>"There's no fear of that; she's all right.&nbsp; What am I to say
to him about money?&nbsp; That's the question."

<p>"I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix."

<p>"Nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum
down; or his father did for him.&nbsp; So much cash was to be paid
over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nidderdale
wanted the money to do what he liked with."

<p>"You wouldn't mind having it settled?"

<p>"No;&mdash;I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid
down, and the income insured to me,&mdash;say &pound;7,000 or &pound;8,000 a
year.&nbsp; I wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth
while."

<p>"But you have nothing left of your own."

<p>"I've got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow
out," said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be
efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might
have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or
blow out his own brains.

<p>"Oh, Felix!&nbsp; how brutal it is to speak to me in that way."

<p>"It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is
business.&nbsp; You want me to marry this girl because of her money."

<p>"You want to marry her yourself."

<p>"I'm quite a philosopher about it.&nbsp; I want her money; and
when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how
little one means to take,&mdash;and whether one is sure to get it."

<p>"I don't think there can be any doubt."

<p>"If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would
be very like cutting my throat then, mother.&nbsp; If a man plays and
loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in
for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a
little hampered you know."

<p>"Of course he'd pay the money first."

<p>"It's very well to say that.&nbsp; Of course he ought; but it
would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything
had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over.&nbsp; He's
so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the
money had been paid or not.&nbsp; You can't carry &pound;10,000 a year
about in your pocket, you know.&nbsp; If you'll go, mother, perhaps I
might think of getting up."

<p>Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every
side in her own mind.&nbsp; But she could also see the house in
Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating
duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile
celebrity of the man.&nbsp; And she could weigh against that the
absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son.&nbsp; As he was, his
condition was hopeless.&nbsp; Such a one must surely run some
risk.&nbsp; The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nidderdale were
only temporary.&nbsp; There were the family estates, and the
marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming
to Felix in the future.

<p>All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had
now;&mdash;position, a title, and a handsome face.&nbsp; Surely he could
afford to risk something!&nbsp; Even the ruins and wreck of such
wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than the
baronet's present condition.&nbsp; And then, though it was possible
that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt
as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would
make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter's
position?&nbsp; She visited her son again on the next morning, which
was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage.&nbsp; "I
think you should be content to run a little risk," she said.

<p>Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had
taken, perhaps, a little too much wine.&nbsp; He was at any rate
sulky, and in a humour to resent interference.&nbsp; "I wish you'd
leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business."

<p>"Is it not my business too?"

<p>"No; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these
people.&nbsp; I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't
want anybody to meddle with me."

<p>"You ungrateful boy!"

<p>"I understand all about that.&nbsp; Of course I'm ungrateful when
I don't do everything just as you wish it.&nbsp; You don't do any
good.&nbsp; You only set me against it all."

<p>"How do you expect to live, then?&nbsp; Are you always to be a
burden on me and your sister?&nbsp; I wonder that you've no
shame.&nbsp; Your cousin Roger is right.&nbsp; I will quit London
altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness."

<p>"That's what Roger says; is it?&nbsp; I always thought Roger was a
fellow of that sort."

<p>"He is the best friend I have."&nbsp; What would Roger have
thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?

<p>"He's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he
meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of
him.&nbsp; Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my
bedroom ain't very pleasant.&nbsp; Of course it's your house; but if
you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to
myself."&nbsp; It was impossible for Lady Carbury, in her present
mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way
and at no other time could she ever find him.&nbsp; If she waited
till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes,
and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the
morning.&nbsp; She was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to
be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but
she felt that she should have something back for her blood,&mdash;some
return for her sacrifices.&nbsp; This chick would take all as long as
there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the
mother-bird as interference.&nbsp; Again and again there came upon
her moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right.&nbsp;
And yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be
severe.&nbsp; She almost hated herself for the weakness of her own
love,&mdash;but she acknowledged it.&nbsp; If he should fall utterly, she
must fall with him.&nbsp; In spite of his cruelty, his callous
hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness, and ruinous
indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last.&nbsp;
All that she had done, and all that she had borne, all that she was
doing and bearing,&mdash;was it not for his sake?

<p>Sir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square since his return from
Carbury, and had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but he had seen them
together, and not a word had been said about the engagement.&nbsp; He
could not make much use of the elder woman.&nbsp; She was as gracious
as was usual with her; but then she was never very gracious.&nbsp;
She had told him that Miss Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a
great bore, as the young lady was "fatigante."&nbsp; Upon this Marie
had declared that she intended to like the young lady very
much.&nbsp; "Pooh!" said Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; "You never like no
person at all."&nbsp; At this Marie had looked over to her lover and
smiled.&nbsp; "Ah, yes; that is all very well,&mdash;while it lasts; but
you care for no friend."&nbsp; From which Felix had judged that
Madame Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely
disapprove of it.&nbsp; On the Saturday he had received a note at his
club from Marie.&nbsp; "Come on Sunday at half-past two.&nbsp; You
will find papa after lunch."&nbsp; This was in his possession when
his mother visited him in his bedroom, and he had determined to obey
the behest.&nbsp; But he would not tell her of his intention, because
he had drunk too much wine, and was sulky.

<p>At about three on Sunday he knocked at the door in Grosvenor
Square and asked for the ladies.&nbsp; Up to the moment of his
knocking,&mdash;even after he had knocked, and when the big porter was
opening the door,&mdash;he intended to ask for Mr Melmotte; but at the
last his courage failed him, and he was shown up into the
drawing-room.&nbsp; There he found Madame Melmotte, Marie, Georgiana
Longestaffe, and&mdash;Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; Marie looked anxiously into
his face, thinking that he had already been with her father.&nbsp; He
slid into a chair close to Madame Melmotte, and endeavoured to seem
at his ease.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale continued his flirtation with Miss
Longestaffe,&mdash;a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper,
wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of the
house.&nbsp; "We know what brings you here," she said.

<p>"I came on purpose to see you."

<p>"I'm sure, Lord Nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here."

<p>"Lord bless you, I knew all about it, and came on purpose.&nbsp;
It's a great institution; isn't it?"

<p>"It's an institution you mean to belong to,&mdash;permanently."

<p>"No, indeed.&nbsp; I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when
they talk of going into the army or to the bar; but I couldn't
pass.&nbsp; That fellow there is the happy man.&nbsp; I shall go on
coming here, because you're here.&nbsp; I don't think you'll like it
a bit, you know."

<p>"I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nidderdale."

<p>After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one
of the windows for a few seconds.&nbsp; "Papa is downstairs in the
book-room," she said.&nbsp; "Lord Alfred was told when he came that
he was out."&nbsp; It was evident to Sir Felix that everything was
prepared for him.&nbsp; "You go down," she continued, "and ask the
man to show you into the book-room."

<p>"Shall I come up again?"

<p>"No; but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame
Didon."&nbsp; Now Sir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to
know that Madame Didon was Madame Melmotte's own woman, commonly
called Didon by the ladies of the family.&nbsp; "Or send it by
post,&mdash;under cover to her.&nbsp; That will be better.&nbsp; Go at
once, now."&nbsp; It certainly did seem to Sir Felix that the very
nature of the girl was altered.&nbsp; But he went, just shaking hands
with Madame Melmotte, and bowing to Miss Longestaffe.

<p>In a few moments he found himself with Mr Melmotte in the chamber
which had been dignified with the name of the book-room.&nbsp; The
great financier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here,
generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendall.&nbsp; It may be
supposed that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices
of money and funds for the New York, Paris, and London
Exchanges.&nbsp; But on this occasion he was waked from slumber,
which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his
mouth.&nbsp; "How do you do, Sir Felix?" he said.&nbsp; "I suppose
you want the ladies."

<p>"I've just been in the drawing-room, but I thought I'd look in on
you as I came down."&nbsp; It immediately occurred to Melmotte that
the baronet had come about his share of the plunder out of the
railway, and he at once resolved to be stern in his manner, and
perhaps rude also.&nbsp; He believed that he should thrive best by
resenting any interference with him in his capacity as
financier.&nbsp; He thought that he had risen high enough to venture
on such conduct, and experience had told him that men who were
themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed by a savage
assumption of superiority.&nbsp; And he, too, had generally the
advantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was
concerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it.&nbsp;
He could thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his
colleagues.&nbsp; When neither of these sufficed to give him
undisputed mastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his
friends.&nbsp; He liked young associates because they were more timid
and less greedy than their elders.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale's
suggestions had soon been put at rest, and Mr Melmotte anticipated no
greater difficulty with Sir Felix.&nbsp; Lord Alfred he had been
obliged to buy.

<p>"I'm very glad to see you, and all that," said Melmotte, assuming
a certain exaltation of the eyebrows which they who had many dealings
with him often found to be very disagreeable; "but this is hardly a
day for business, Sir Felix, nor,&mdash;yet a place for business."

<p>Sir Felix wished himself at the Beargarden.&nbsp; He certainly had
come about business,&mdash;business of a particular sort; but Marie had
told him that of all days Sunday would be the best, and had also told
him that her father was more likely to be in a good humour on Sunday
than on any other day.&nbsp; Sir Felix felt that he had not been
received with good humour.&nbsp; "I didn't mean to intrude, Mr
Melmotte," he said.

<p>"I dare say not.&nbsp; I only thought I'd tell you.&nbsp; You
might have been going to speak about that railway."

<p>"Oh dear no."

<p>"Your mother was saying to me down in the county that she hoped
you attended to the business.&nbsp; I told her that there was nothing
to attend to."

<p>"My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it," said Sir
Felix.

<p>"Women never do.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;what can I do for you, now that you
are here?"

<p>"Mr Melmotte, I'm come,&mdash;I'm come to;&mdash;in short, Mr Melmotte, I
want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand."

<p>"The d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; you do!"

<p>"Well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent."

<p>"She knows you're coming, then?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;she knows."

<p>"And my wife,&mdash;does she know?"

<p>"I've never spoken to her about it.&nbsp; Perhaps Miss Melmotte
has."

<p>"And how long have you and she understood each other?"

<p>"I've been attached to her ever since I saw her," said Sir
Felix.&nbsp; "I have indeed.&nbsp; I've spoken to her
sometimes.&nbsp; You know how that kind of thing goes on."

<p>"I'm blessed if I do.&nbsp; I know how it ought to go on.&nbsp; I
know that when large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the
young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the
girl.&nbsp; He's a fool if he don't, if he wants to get the father's
money.&nbsp; So she has given you a promise?"

<p>"I don't know about a promise."

<p>"Do you consider that she's engaged to you?"

<p>"Not if she's disposed to get out of it," said Sir Felix, hoping
that he might thus ingratiate himself with the father.&nbsp; "Of
course, I should be awfully disappointed."

<p>"She has consented to your coming to me?"

<p>"Well, yes;&mdash;in a sort of a way.&nbsp; Of course she knows that it
all depends on you."

<p>"Not at all.&nbsp; She's of age.&nbsp; If she chooses to marry
you she can marry you.&nbsp; If that's all you want, her consent is
enough.&nbsp; You're a baronet, I believe?"

<p>"Oh, yes, I'm a baronet."

<p>"And therefore you've come to your own property.&nbsp; You haven't
to wait for your father to die, and I dare say you are indifferent
about money."

<p>This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound
to dispel, even at the risk of offending the father.&nbsp; "Not
exactly that," he said.&nbsp; "I suppose you will give your daughter
a fortune, of course."

<p>"Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her.&nbsp;
If my daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no
doubt.&nbsp; How much is neither here nor there.&nbsp; If she marries
to please herself, without considering me, I shan't give her a
farthing."

<p>"I had hoped that you might consent, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"I've said nothing about that.&nbsp; It is possible.&nbsp; You're
a man of fashion and have a title of your own,&mdash;and no doubt a
property.&nbsp; If you'll show me that you've an income fit to
maintain her, I'll think about it at any rate.&nbsp; What is your
property, Sir Felix?"

<p>What could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six,
matter to a man like Melmotte?&nbsp; It was thus that Sir Felix
looked at it.&nbsp; When a man can hardly count his millions he ought
not to ask questions about trifling sums of money.&nbsp; But the
question had been asked, and the asking of such a question was no
doubt within the prerogative of a proposed father-in-law.&nbsp; At
any rate, it must be answered.&nbsp; For a moment it occurred to Sir
Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth.&nbsp; It would be
nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come after.&nbsp;
Were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower and lower into
the mire by cross-examinings.&nbsp; There might be an end of all his
hopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all his
misery.&nbsp; But he lacked the necessary courage.&nbsp; "It isn't a
large property, you know," he said.

<p>"Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose," said the
horrid, big, rich scoundrel.

<p>"No;&mdash;not quite like that," said Sir Felix, with a sickly laugh.

<p>"But you have got enough to support a baronet's title?"

<p>"That depends on how you want to support it," said Sir Felix,
putting off the evil day.

<p>"Where's your family seat?"

<p>"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old
family place."

<p>"That doesn't belong to you," said Melmotte, very sharply.

<p>"No; not yet.&nbsp; But I'm the heir."

<p>Perhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than
another to be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is
the system under which titles and property descend together, or in
various lines.&nbsp; The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is
complex, and so is the business of Parliament.&nbsp; But the rules
regulating them, though anomalous, are easy to the memory compared
with the mixed anomalies of the peerage and primogeniture.&nbsp; They
who are brought up among it, learn it as children do a language, but
strangers who begin the study in advanced life, seldom make
themselves perfect in it.&nbsp; It was everything to Melmotte that he
should understand the ways of the country which he had adopted; and
when he did not understand, he was clever at hiding his
ignorance.&nbsp; Now he was puzzled.&nbsp; He knew that Sir Felix was
a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the
family.&nbsp; He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury,
and he judged by the name it must be an old family property.&nbsp;
And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was
simply an Esquire.&nbsp; "Oh, the heir are you?&nbsp; But how did he
get it before you?&nbsp; You're the head of the family?"

<p>"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course," said Sir Felix,
lying directly.&nbsp; "But the place won't be mine till he
dies.&nbsp; It would take a long time to explain it all."

<p>"He's a young man, isn't he?"

<p>"No;&mdash;not what you'd call a young man.&nbsp; He isn't very old."

<p>"If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?"

<p>Sir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth
with discretion.&nbsp; "I don't quite know how it would be.&nbsp; I
have always understood that I am the heir.&nbsp; It's not very likely
that he will marry."

<p>"And in the meantime what is your own property?"

<p>"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,&mdash;and
then I am my mother's heir."

<p>"You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry
my daughter."

<p>"Certainly."

<p>"Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the
income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married
man?&nbsp; I fancy that the position you assume justifies the
question on my part."&nbsp; The bloated swindler, the vile city
ruffian, was certainly taking a most ungenerous advantage of the
young aspirant for wealth.&nbsp; It was then that Sir Felix felt his
own position.&nbsp; Was he not a baronet, and a gentleman, and a very
handsome fellow, and a man of the world who had been in a crack
regiment?&nbsp; If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed
commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter why
could he not say so without asking disgusting questions such as
these,&mdash;questions which it was quite impossible that a gentleman
should answer?&nbsp; Was it not sufficiently plain that any gentleman
proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so
under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment?&nbsp; Would it not be an
understood bargain that, as he provided the rank and position, she
would provide the money?&nbsp; And yet the vulgar wretch took
advantage of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful
questions!&nbsp; Sir Felix stood silent, trying to look the man in
the face, but failing;&mdash;wishing that he was well out of the house,
and at the Beargarden.&nbsp; "You don't seem to be very clear about
your own circumstances, Sir Felix.&nbsp; Perhaps you will get your
lawyer to write to me."

<p>"Perhaps that will be best," said the lover.

<p>"Either that, or to give it up.&nbsp; My daughter, no doubt, will
have money; but money expects money."&nbsp; At this moment Lord
Alfred entered the room.&nbsp; "You're very late to-day,
Alfred.&nbsp; Why didn't you come as you said you would?"

<p>"I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out."

<p>"I haven't been out of this room all day,&mdash;except to lunch.&nbsp;
Good morning, Sir Felix.&nbsp; Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have
a little soda and brandy."&nbsp; Sir Felix had gone through some
greeting with his fellow Director Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded
in getting Melmotte to shake hands with him before he went.&nbsp; "Do
you know anything about that young fellow?" Melmotte asked as soon as
the door was closed.

<p>"He's a baronet without a shilling;&mdash;was in the army and had to
leave it," said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler.

<p>"Without a shilling!&nbsp; I supposed so.&nbsp; But he's heir to a
place down in Suffolk;&mdash;eh?"

<p>"Not a bit of it.&nbsp; It's the same name, and that's about
all.&nbsp; Mr Carbury has a small property there, and he might give
it to me to-morrow.&nbsp; I wish he would, though there isn't much of
it.&nbsp; That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever."

<p>"Hasn't he now!"&nbsp; Mr Melmotte, as he speculated upon it,
almost admired the young man's impudence.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="24"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXIV.&nbsp; Miles Grendall's Triumph</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Sir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been
checkmated,&mdash;and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence
of the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field.&nbsp; As
far as he could see, the game was over.&nbsp; No doubt he might marry
Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; The father had told him so much himself, and he
perfectly believed the truth of that oath which Marie had
sworn.&nbsp; He did not doubt but that she'd stick to him close
enough.&nbsp; She was in love with him, which was natural; and was a
fool,&mdash;which was perhaps also natural.&nbsp; But romance was not the
game which he was playing.&nbsp; People told him that when girls
succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were
always constrained to forgive them at last.&nbsp; That might be the
case with ordinary fathers.&nbsp; But Melmotte was decidedly not an
ordinary father.&nbsp; He was,&mdash;so Sir Felix declared to
himself,&mdash;perhaps the greatest brute ever created.&nbsp; Sir Felix
could not but remember that elevation of the eyebrows, and the brazen
forehead, and the hard mouth.&nbsp; He had found himself quite unable
to stand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed and swore at the man
as he was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.

<p>But what should he do?&nbsp; Should he abandon Marie Melmotte
altogether, never go to Grosvenor Square again, and drop the whole
family, including the Great Mexican Railway?&nbsp; Then an idea
occurred to him.&nbsp; Nidderdale had explained to him the result of
his application for shares.&nbsp; "You see we haven't bought any and
therefore can't sell any.&nbsp; There seems to be something in
that.&nbsp; I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to go
a thou' or two.&nbsp; If he sees his way to get the money back, he'd
do that and let me have the difference."&nbsp; On that Sunday
afternoon Sir Felix thought over all this.&nbsp; "Why shouldn't he
'go a thou,' and get the difference?"&nbsp; He made a mental
calculation.&nbsp; &pound;12 10s per &pound;100!&nbsp; &pound;125 for a thousand! and
all paid in ready money.&nbsp; As far as Sir Felix could understand,
directly the one operation had been perfected the thousand pounds
would be available for another.&nbsp; As he looked into it with all
his intelligence he thought that he began to perceive that that was
the way in which the Melmottes of the world made their money.&nbsp;
There was but one objection.&nbsp; He had not got the entire thousand
pounds.&nbsp; But luck had been on the whole very good to him.&nbsp;
He had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank in the
city at which he had opened an account.&nbsp; And he had very much
more than the remainder in I.O.U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles
Grendall.&nbsp; In fact if every man had his own,&mdash;and his bosom
glowed with indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which
he was kept out of his own,&mdash;he could go into the city and take up
his shares to-morrow, and still have ready money at his
command.&nbsp; If he could do this, would not such conduct on his
part be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune
which Melmotte had brought against him?&nbsp; He would endeavour to
work the money out of Dolly Longestaffe;&mdash;and he entertained an idea
that though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall,
he might use his claim against Miles in the city.&nbsp; Miles was
Secretary to the Board, and might perhaps contrive that the money
required for the shares should not be all ready money.&nbsp; Sir
Felix was not very clear about it, but thought that he might possibly
in this way use the indebtedness of Miles Grendall.&nbsp; "How I do
hate a fellow who does not pay up," he said to himself as he sat
alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come in.&nbsp; And he
formed in his head Draconic laws which he would fain have executed
upon men who lost money at play and did not pay.&nbsp; "How the deuce
fellows can look one in the face, is what I can't understand," he
said to himself.

<p>He thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to
Melmotte as a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his
suit.&nbsp; So he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte in accordance with
her instructions.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR M.,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your father cut up very rough about
money.&nbsp; Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your
mother?<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours always,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;F.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This, as directed, he put under cover to Madame Didon,&mdash;Grosvenor
Square, and posted at the club.&nbsp; He had put nothing at any rate
in the letter which would commit him.

<p>There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight
o'clock.&nbsp; Five or six men would sit down, and would always
gamble afterwards.&nbsp; On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered
in at about seven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the
opportunity a good one to speak of his money.&nbsp; "You couldn't
cash your I.O.U.'s for me to-morrow;&mdash;could you?"

<p>"To-morrow! oh, lord!"

<p>"I'll tell you why.&nbsp; You know I'd tell you anything because I
think we are really friends.&nbsp; I'm after that daughter of
Melmotte's."

<p>"I'm told you're to have her."

<p>"I don't know about that.&nbsp; I mean to try at any rate.&nbsp;
I've gone in you know for that Board in the city."

<p>"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy."

<p>"Yes, you do, Dolly.&nbsp; You remember that American fellow,
Montague's friend, that was here one night and won all our money."

<p>"The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to
California.&nbsp; Fancy starting to California after a hard
night.&nbsp; I always wondered whether he got there alive."

<p>"Well;&mdash;I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate
those kinds of things."

<p>"And because I am such a fool."

<p>"I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a
week.&nbsp; But it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of
shares in the city to-morrow;&mdash;or perhaps Wednesday might do.&nbsp;
I'm bound to pay for them, and old Melmotte will think that I'm
utterly hard up if I don't.&nbsp; Indeed he said as much, and the
only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money.&nbsp;
Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?"

<p>"It's always important to have a lot of money.&nbsp; I know that."

<p>"I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't
thought I was sure.&nbsp; You know how much you owe me, don't you?"

<p>"Not in the least."

<p>"It's about eleven hundred pounds!"

<p>"I shouldn't wonder."

<p>"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand.&nbsp; Grasslough and
Nidderdale when they lose always pay with Miles's I.O.U.'s."

<p>"So should I, if I had them."

<p>"It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff
going, and they really ain't worth anything.&nbsp; I don't see what's
the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table.&nbsp;
As for Grendall himself, he has no feeling about it."

<p>"Not the least, I should say."

<p>"You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?"

<p>"Melmotte has been at me twice.&nbsp; He wants me to agree to sell
something.&nbsp; He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob
me.&nbsp; You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the
way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it.&nbsp;
I don't know any other way."

<p>"You could write me that,&mdash;in a business sort of way."

<p>"I couldn't do that, Carbury.&nbsp; What's the use?&nbsp; I never
write any letters, I can't do it.&nbsp; You tell him that; and if the
sale comes off, I'll make it straight."

<p>Miles Grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in the
smoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the
Secretary.&nbsp; He began his operations with unusual courtesy,
believing that the man must have some influence with the great
distributor of shares.

<p>"I'm going to take up my shares in that company," said Sir Felix.

<p>"Ah;&mdash;indeed."&nbsp; And Miles enveloped himself from head to
foot in smoke.

<p>"I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte
and he has explained it, I think I shall go in for a couple of
thousand on Wednesday."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;ah."

<p>"It will be the proper thing to do&mdash;won't it?"

<p>"Very good&mdash;thing to do!"&nbsp; Miles Grendall smoked harder and
harder as the suggestions were made to him.

<p>"Is it always ready money?"

<p>"Always ready money," said Miles shaking his head, as though in
reprobation of so abominable an institution.

<p>"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a
deposit, say 50 per cent., is made for the shares?"

<p>"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same
thing."

<p>Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as
he would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark.&nbsp;
"You know I should want to sell again,&mdash;for the rise."

<p>"Oh; you'll want to sell again."

<p>"And therefore I must have the full number."

<p>"You could sell half the number, you know," said Miles.

<p>"I'm determined to begin with ten shares;&mdash;that's &pound;1,000.&nbsp;
Well;&mdash;I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so
much.&nbsp; Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on
paying 50 per cent, down?"

<p>"Melmotte does all that himself."

<p>"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your
own payments to me."&nbsp; This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a
delicate mode of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.

<p>"That's private," said Miles frowning.

<p>"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could
buy the shares with it though they are public."

<p>"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury."

<p>"You can't help me?"

<p>"Not in that way."

<p>"Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?"&nbsp; Sir
Felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the
impassibility of his debtor.&nbsp; Here was a man who did not pay his
debts of honour, who did not even propose any arrangement for paying
them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private
matters with affairs of business!&nbsp; It made the young baronet
very sick.&nbsp; Miles Grendall smoked on in silence.&nbsp; There was
a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no
answer.&nbsp; "Do you know how much you owe me?" continued the
baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced the
attack.&nbsp; There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and
the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an
undertone.&nbsp; These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a
whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in
anger.

<p>"Of course I know," said Miles.

<p>"Well?"

<p>"I'm not going to talk about it here,"

<p>"Not going to talk about it here?"

<p>"No.&nbsp; This is a public room."

<p>"I am going to talk about it," said Sir Felix, raising his voice.

<p>"Will any fellow come upstairs and play a game of billiards?" said
Miles Grendall rising from his chair.&nbsp; Then he walked slowly out
of the room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased.&nbsp;
For a moment Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction
to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall
was a more popular man than himself.

<p>It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled
in the card-room at about eleven.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe was there,
and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of
course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them,
Paul Montague.&nbsp; Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety
of joining the party.&nbsp; What was the use of playing with a man
who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to
pay?&nbsp; But then if he did not play with him, where should he find
another gambling table?&nbsp; They began with whist, but soon laid
that aside and devoted themselves to loo.&nbsp; The least respected
man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was in compliance
with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler
game.&nbsp; "Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out," said
Grasslough.&nbsp; "It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and
then; one can always bet," said Dolly shortly afterwards.&nbsp; "I
hate loo," said Sir Felix in answer to a third application.&nbsp; "I
like whist best," said Nidderdale, "but I'll play anything anybody
likes,&mdash;pitch and toss if you please."&nbsp; But Miles Grendall had
his way, and loo was the game.

<p>At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner.&nbsp; The play
had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely.&nbsp;
Whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his
garners.&nbsp; The men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke
of luck.&nbsp; He had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to
pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted
with it without a pang.&nbsp; Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a
supply of it.&nbsp; The only man there not so furnished was Montague,
and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with
cash.&nbsp; But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money
going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances could it be
got back from him.&nbsp; "Montague," he said, "just change these for
the time.&nbsp; I'll take them back, if you still have them when
we've done."&nbsp; And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the
table.&nbsp; The result of course would be that Felix would receive
so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own
worthless paper.&nbsp; To Montague it would make no difference, and
he did as he was asked,&mdash;or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles
interfered.&nbsp; On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come
between him and another man?&nbsp; "I don't understand this kind of
thing," he said.&nbsp; "When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my
I.O.U.'s, as long as you have any."

<p>"By George, that's kind."

<p>"But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed."

<p>"Pay them yourself, then," said Sir Felix, laying a handful down
on the table.

<p>"Don't let's have a row," said Lord Nidderdale.

<p>"Carbury is always making a row," said Grasslough.

<p>"Of course he is," said Miles Grendall.

<p>"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we
have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get
cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk
off with it."

<p>"Who is walking off?" said Miles.

<p>"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any
of us?" asked Grasslough.

<p>The matter was debated, and was thus decided.&nbsp; It was not to
be allowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in
the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt.&nbsp; But Mr
Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he
would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his
I.O.U.'s, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them.&nbsp;
The decision made Sir Felix very cross.&nbsp; He knew that their
condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to
such commercial accuracy,&mdash;which indeed would require an accountant
to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would
in truth walk off with the ready money.

<p>For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate
in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but
losing a minimum, and watching the board.&nbsp; He was sitting next
to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved
his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly
Longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side.&nbsp; This went
on for an hour, during which Grendall still won,&mdash;and won heavily
from Paul Montague.&nbsp; "I never saw a fellow have such a run of
luck in my life," said Grasslough.&nbsp; "You've had two trumps dealt
to you every hand almost since we began!"

<p>"Ever so many hands I haven't played at all," said Miles.

<p>"You've always won when I've played," said Dolly.&nbsp; "I've been
looed every time."

<p>"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so
much," said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters
of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above &pound;1,000,
and had also,&mdash;which was of infinitely greater concern to
him,&mdash;received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to
him.

<p>"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "I
hate all this row about winning and losing.&nbsp; Let's go on, or go
to bed."&nbsp; The idea of going to bed was absurd.&nbsp; So they
went on.&nbsp; Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very
little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch
him.&nbsp; At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the
man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed
his success to a continued run of aces.&nbsp; He was tempted to rush
at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person.&nbsp; But
he feared.&nbsp; Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if
there should be no card there?&nbsp; And then, in the scramble, there
would certainly be at any rate a doubt.&nbsp; And he knew that the
men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an
accusation.&nbsp; Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale
and Dolly Longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect
any one of their own set of cheating them.&nbsp; He feared both the
violence of the man he should accuse, and also the unpassive good
humour of the others.&nbsp; He let that opportunity pass by, again
watched, and again saw the card abstracted.&nbsp; Thrice he saw it,
till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see
it.&nbsp; As often as the deal came round, the man did it.&nbsp;
Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the
man had an ace at least once.&nbsp; It seemed to him that nothing
could be easier.&nbsp; At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and
went away, leaving the others playing.&nbsp; He had lost nearly a
thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper.&nbsp; "There's
something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.

<p>"There's always something the matter with him, I think," said
Miles.&nbsp; "He is so awfully greedy about his money."&nbsp; Miles
had become somewhat triumphant in his success.

<p>"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said
Nidderdale.&nbsp; "We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he
has put up with as much as anybody."&nbsp; Miles was cowed at once,
and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="25"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXV.&nbsp; In Grosvenor Square</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she
received from Didon early on the Monday morning.&nbsp; With a
volubility of French eloquence, Didon declared that she would be
turned out of the house if either Monsieur or Madame were to know
what she was doing.&nbsp; Marie told her that Madame would certainly
never dismiss her.&nbsp; "Well, perhaps not Madame," said Didon, who
knew too much about Madame to be dismissed; "but Monsieur!"&nbsp;
Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsieur know anything
about it.&nbsp; In that house nobody ever told anything to
Monsieur.&nbsp; He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom
the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing guns
from behind rocks and trees.&nbsp; It is not a pleasant condition for
a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew
how he was placed.&nbsp; It never occurred to him to trust any
one.&nbsp; Of course his daughter might run away.&nbsp; But who would
run away with her without money?&nbsp; And there could be no money
except from him.&nbsp; He knew himself and his own strength.&nbsp; He
was not the man to forgive a girl, and then bestow his wealth on the
Lothario who had injured him.&nbsp; His daughter was valuable to him
because she might make him the father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl;
but the higher that he rose without such assistance, the less need
had he of his daughter's aid.&nbsp; Lord Alfred was certainly very
useful to him.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had whispered into his ear that by
certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he himself might be
made a baronet.&nbsp; "But if they should say that I'm not an
Englishman?" suggested Melmotte.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had explained that
it was not necessary that he should have been born in England, or
even that he should have an English name.&nbsp; No questions would be
asked.&nbsp; Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend a
little money on the proper side,&mdash;by which Lord Alfred meant the
Conservative side,&mdash;and be munificent in his entertainments, and the
baronetcy would be almost a matter of course.&nbsp; Indeed, there was
no knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by
money scattered with a liberal hand.&nbsp; In these conversations,
Melmotte would speak of his money and power of making money as though
they were unlimited,&mdash;and Lord Alfred believed him.

<p>Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,&mdash;not because it described
her father as "cutting up rough."&nbsp; To her who had known her
father all her life that was a matter of course.&nbsp; But there was
no word of love in the note.&nbsp; An impassioned correspondence
carried on through Didon would be delightful to her.&nbsp; She was
quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man.&nbsp; She
had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of others whom she
did not love,&mdash;but this she had done at the moment almost of her
first introduction to the marvellous world in which she was now
living.&nbsp; As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her
courage grew within her.&nbsp; She became conscious of an identity of
her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt
which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and
grand names and grand things.&nbsp; She was no longer afraid of
saying No to the Nidderdales on account of any awe of them
personally.&nbsp; It might be that she should acknowledge herself to
be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from
the sense of that obligation.&nbsp; Had her mind been as it was now
when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved
him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and who,
had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his
lovemaking.&nbsp; But at that time she had been childish.&nbsp; He,
finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her.&nbsp; And she,
child though she was, had resented such usage.&nbsp; But a few months
in London had changed all this, and now she was a child no
longer.&nbsp; She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her
love.&nbsp; Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be
true.&nbsp; If necessary, she would run away.&nbsp; Sir Felix was her
idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship.&nbsp; But she desired
that her idol should be of flesh and blood, and not of wood.&nbsp;
She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as she sat with his
letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know Didon as well
as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to such
custody.&nbsp; She could write to him at his club, and having no such
fear, she could write warmly.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; Early Monday Morning.<br>
<br>
DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have just got your note;&mdash;such a
scrap!&nbsp; Of course papa would talk about money because he never
thinks of anything else.&nbsp; I don't know anything about money, and
I don't care in the least how much you have got.&nbsp; Papa has got
plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once
married.&nbsp; I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of
everything.&nbsp; Papa is very cross to her sometimes;&mdash;more so than
to me.&nbsp; I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at
him.&nbsp; I very often hardly see him all day long.&nbsp; But I
don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and
honour I will never marry any one except you.&nbsp; I don't think he
will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it,&mdash;for your sake.&nbsp; He
does beat mamma sometimes, I know.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You can write to me quite safely
through Didon.&nbsp; I think if you would call some day and give her
something, it would help, as she is very fond of money.&nbsp; Do
write and tell me that you love me.&nbsp; I love you better than
anything in the world, and I will never.&mdash;never give you up.&nbsp; I
suppose you can come and call,&mdash;unless papa tells the man in the hall
not to let you in.&nbsp; I'll find that out from Didon, but I can't
do it before sending this letter.&nbsp; Papa dined out yesterday
somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were
here.&nbsp; I never see him before he goes into the city in the
morning.&nbsp; Now I am going downstairs to breakfast with mamma and
that Miss Longestaffe.&nbsp; She is a stuck-up thing.&nbsp; Didn't
you think so at Caversham?<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Good-bye.&nbsp; You are my own, own, own darling Felix.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MARIE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Sir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of
the Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head.&nbsp; He thought
if there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go
on with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money
secure.&nbsp; "What an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he
crumpled the letter up.

<p>Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little
present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast.&nbsp; Her mother
was the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed.&nbsp; That
lady, when she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the
master of the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to
her in her own room.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte she must endure.&nbsp;
With Madame Melmotte she had to go out in the carriage every
day.&nbsp; Indeed she could only go to those parties to which Madame
Melmotte accompanied her.&nbsp; If the London season was to be of any
use at all, she must accustom herself to the companionship of Madame
Melmotte.&nbsp; The man kept himself very much apart from her.&nbsp;
She met him only at dinner, and that not often.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte
was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understand that her
guest was only her guest as a matter of business.

<p>But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances
were changed in their manner to her.&nbsp; She had written to her
dear friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss
Triplex, and whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been
splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at
the time of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to
consent to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte.&nbsp;
She hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account.&nbsp;
She had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and
rather humble.&nbsp; Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble
before; but the Monograms were people so much thought of and in such
an excellent set!&nbsp; She would do anything rather then lose the
Monograms.&nbsp; But it was of no use.&nbsp; She had been humble in
vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note.&nbsp; "She
never really cared for anybody but herself," Georgiana said in her
wretched solitude.&nbsp; Then, too, she had found that Lord
Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed.&nbsp; She was not
a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient accuracy.&nbsp;
There had been little flirtations between her and
Nidderdale,&mdash;meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must
marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke
when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room.&nbsp; She could
see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the
park,&mdash;especially in the faces of the men.&nbsp; She had always
carried herself with a certain high demeanour, and had been able to
maintain it.&nbsp; All that was now gone from her, and she knew
it.&nbsp; Though the thing was as yet but a few days old she
understood that others understood that she had degraded
herself.&nbsp; "What's all this about?" Lord Grasslough had said to
her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; She
had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.

<p>"Impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a
fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.

<p>A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of
commemoration.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister!&nbsp;
His mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be
moved to such uncommon action.&nbsp; He came too at a very early
hour, not much after noon, when it was his custom to be eating his
breakfast in bed.&nbsp; He declared at once to the servant that he
did not wish to see Madame Melmotte or any of the family.&nbsp; He
had called to see his sister.&nbsp; He was therefore shown into a
separate room where Georgiana joined him.

<p>"What's all this about?"

<p>She tried to laugh as she tossed her head.&nbsp; "What brings you
here, I wonder?&nbsp; This is quite an unexpected compliment."

<p>"My being here doesn't matter.&nbsp; I can go anywhere without
doing much harm.&nbsp; Why are you staying with these people?"

<p>"Ask papa."

<p>"I don't suppose he sent you here?"

<p>"That's just what he did do."

<p>"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it.&nbsp; Is
it because they are none of them coming up?"

<p>"Exactly that, Dolly.&nbsp; What a wonderful young man you are for
guessing!"

<p>"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"

<p>"No;&mdash;not a bit."

<p>"Then I feel ashamed for you."

<p>"Everybody comes here."

<p>"No;&mdash;everybody does not come and stay here as you are
doing.&nbsp; Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the
family.&nbsp; I have heard of nobody doing it except you.&nbsp; I
thought you used to think so much of yourself."

<p>"I think as much of myself as ever I did," said Georgiana, hardly
able to restrain her tears.

<p>"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain
here.&nbsp; I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me."

<p>"What did he say, Dolly?"

<p>"He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought.&nbsp;
And of course everybody thinks the same.&nbsp; How you can like the
people yourself is what I can't understand!"

<p>"I don't like them,&mdash;I hate them."

<p>"Then why do you come and live with them?"

<p>"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand.&nbsp; A man
is so different.&nbsp; You can go just where you please, and do what
you like.&nbsp; And if you're short of money, people will give you
credit.&nbsp; And you can live by yourself and all that sort of
thing.&nbsp; How should you like to be shut up down at Caversham all
the season?"

<p>"I shouldn't mind it,&mdash;only for the governor."

<p>"You have got a property of your own.&nbsp; Your fortune is made
for you.&nbsp; What is to become of me?"

<p>"You mean about marrying?"

<p>"I mean altogether," said the poor girl, unable to be quite as
explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and
mother, and sister.&nbsp; "Of course I have to think of myself."

<p>"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you.&nbsp; The long and
the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here.&nbsp; It's not often I
interfere, but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you.&nbsp;
I shall write to the governor, and tell him too.&nbsp; He should have
known better."

<p>"Don't write to papa, Dolly!"

<p>"Yes, I shall.&nbsp; I am not going to see everything going to the
devil without saying a word.&nbsp; Good-bye."

<p>As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was
open,&mdash;not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden
hours,&mdash;and actually did write a letter to his father.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR FATHER,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have seen Georgiana at Mr Melmotte's
house.&nbsp; She ought not to be there.&nbsp; I suppose you don't
know it, but everybody says he's a swindler.&nbsp; For the sake of
the family I hope you will get her home again.&nbsp; It seems to me
that Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of
the year.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate son,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This letter fell upon old Mr Longestaffe at Caversham like a
thunderbolt.&nbsp; It was marvellous to him that his son should have
been instigated to write a letter.&nbsp; The Melmottes must be very
bad indeed,&mdash;worse than he had thought,&mdash;or their iniquities would
not have brought about such energy as this.&nbsp; But the passage
which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have
taken his family back to town.&nbsp; This had come from his son, who
had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="26"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXVI.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in
Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with
him.&nbsp; But he had many troubles.&nbsp; His troubles in reference
to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,&mdash;and also their consolation,&mdash;are
already known to the reader.&nbsp; He was troubled too about his
love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of
the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life
might perhaps be blessed.&nbsp; Henrietta had at any rate as yet
showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer.&nbsp; He was
troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in
that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it
from day to day in spite of his own conscience.&nbsp; But there was
yet another trouble which culminated just at this time.&nbsp; One
morning, not long after that Sunday night which had been so
wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly
and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington.&nbsp; Here
he knocked at a decent, modest door,&mdash;at such a house as men live in
with two or three hundred a year,&mdash;and asked for Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp;
Yes;&mdash;Mrs Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the
drawing-room.&nbsp; There he stood by the round table for a quarter
of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and
then Mrs Hurtle entered the room.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle was a widow whom
he had once promised to marry.&nbsp; "Paul," she said, with a quick,
sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she
pleased,&mdash;taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that that
letter of yours must go for nothing.&nbsp; Say that it shall be so,
and I will forgive everything."

<p>"I cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand on hers.

<p>"You cannot say it!&nbsp; What do you mean?&nbsp; Will you dare to
tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?"

<p>"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely.&nbsp; He had come
thither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would
be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him.&nbsp;
He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to
this woman, but the justification of his conduct was founded on
reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her.&nbsp; He had heard
that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved
him from his present difficulty.&nbsp; But he had loved her,&mdash;did
love her in a certain fashion; and her offences, such as they were,
did not debar her from his sympathies.

<p>"How are they changed?&nbsp; I am two years older, if you mean
that."&nbsp; As she said this she looked round at the glass, as
though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be
unfit to become this man's wife.&nbsp; She was very lovely, with a
kind of beauty which we seldom see now.&nbsp; In these days men
regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more
than either the colour or the expression, and women fit themselves to
men's eyes.&nbsp; With padding and false hair without limit a figure
may be constructed of almost any dimensions.&nbsp; The sculptors who
construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very
skilful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes
with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence,
sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes very dishevelled
indeed when long out of the sculptor's hands.&nbsp; Colours indeed
are added, but not the colours which we used to love.&nbsp; The taste
for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for
horsehair and pearl powder.&nbsp; But Mrs Hurtle was not a beauty
after the present fashion.&nbsp; She was very dark,&mdash;a dark
brunette,&mdash;with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but
could also be very severe.&nbsp; Her silken hair, almost black, hung
in a thousand curls all round her head and neck.&nbsp; Her cheeks and
lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a
varying expression to her face with almost every word she
spoke.&nbsp; Her nose also was full, and had something of the
pug.&nbsp; But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her
would swear to be perfect.&nbsp; Her mouth was large, and she rarely
showed her teeth.&nbsp; Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple,
and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second.&nbsp;
Her bust was full and beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed
as though she were oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own
charms.&nbsp; Her dress, as Montague had seen her, was always
black,&mdash;not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk or woollen or
cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always
well-fitting, and most especially always simple.&nbsp; She was
certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it.&nbsp; She looked
as though she knew it,&mdash;but only after that fashion in which a woman
ought to know it.&nbsp; Of her age she had never spoken to
Montague.&nbsp; She was in truth over thirty,&mdash;perhaps almost as near
thirty-five as thirty.&nbsp; But she was one of those whom years
hardly seem to touch.

<p>"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.

<p>"Psha!&nbsp; Do not tell me of that.&nbsp; I care nothing for my
beauty unless it can bind me to your love.&nbsp; Sit down there and
tell me what it means."&nbsp; Then she let go his hand, and seated
herself opposite to the chair which she gave him.

<p>"I told you in my letter."

<p>"You told me nothing in your letter,&mdash;except that it was to
be&mdash;off.&nbsp; Why is it to be&mdash;off?&nbsp; Do you not love me?"&nbsp;
Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and
looked up in his face.&nbsp; "Paul," she said, "I have come across
the Atlantic on purpose to see you,&mdash;after so many months,&mdash;and will
you not give me one kiss?&nbsp; Even though you should leave me for
ever, give me one kiss."&nbsp; Of course he kissed her, not once, but
with a long, warm embrace.&nbsp; How could it have been
otherwise?&nbsp; With all his heart he wished that she would have
remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what could he do
but embrace her?&nbsp; "Now tell me everything," she said, seating
herself on a footstool at his feet.

<p>She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill-treat
or scorn with impunity.&nbsp; Paul felt, even while she was lavishing
her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him
before he left her.&nbsp; He had known something of her temper
before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her
love.&nbsp; He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England,
and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and
in poverty,&mdash;for he had been almost penniless in New York.&nbsp; When
they landed at Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife.&nbsp; He
had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his
life.&nbsp; This was before his second journey to America, when
Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him.&nbsp; But she had told him
little or nothing of her own life,&mdash;but that she was a widow, and
that she was travelling to Paris on business.&nbsp; When he left her
at the London railway station, from which she started for Dover, he
was full of all a lover's ardour.&nbsp; He had offered to go with
her, but that she had declined.&nbsp; But when he remembered that he
must certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and
remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was
engaged, he became embarrassed.&nbsp; What were her means he did not
know.&nbsp; He did know that she was some years older than himself,
and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family.&nbsp;
She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest
miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as
the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul
Montague.&nbsp; But it was only when he thought of all this after she
had left him,&mdash;only when he reflected how bald was the story which he
must tell Roger Carbury,&mdash;that he became dismayed.&nbsp; Such had
been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of
adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still
progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had
been missing.

<p>He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it
was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a
railway train without knowing something about her.&nbsp; Roger did
all he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,&mdash;and partially
succeeded.&nbsp; It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man
should enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long
journey,&mdash;so natural that during the journey he should allow himself
to think that she may during her whole life be all in all to him as
she is at that moment;&mdash;and so natural again that he should see his
mistake when he has parted from her!&nbsp; But Montague, though he
was half false to his widow, was half true to her.&nbsp; He had
pledged his word, and that he said ought to bind him.&nbsp; Then he
returned to California, and learned, through the instrumentality of
Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San Francisco Mrs Hurtle was regarded as
a mystery.&nbsp; Some people did not quite believe that there ever
had been a Mr Hurtle.&nbsp; Others said that there certainly had been
a Mr Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still
existed.&nbsp; The fact, however, best known of her was that she had
shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon.&nbsp; She had not
been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the
circumstances justified the deed.&nbsp; Everybody knew that she was
very clever and very beautiful,&mdash;but everybody also thought that she
was very dangerous.&nbsp; "She always had money when she was here,"
Hamilton Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from."&nbsp;
Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired.&nbsp; "I don't think, you
know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership, if you mean
that," said Hamilton K. Fisker.

<p>Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his
second journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in
spite of his cousin's caution.&nbsp; He told her that he was going to
see what he could make of his broken fortunes,&mdash;for at this time, as
the reader will remember, there was no great railway in
existence,&mdash;and she had promised to follow him.&nbsp; Since that,
they had never met till this day.&nbsp; She had not made the promised
journey to San Francisco, at any rate before he had left it.&nbsp;
Letters from her had reached him in England, and these he had
answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that their
engagement must be at an end.&nbsp; And now she had followed him to
London!&nbsp; "Tell me everything," she said, leaning upon him and
looking up into his face.

<p>"But you,&mdash;when did you arrive here?"

<p>"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last.&nbsp; On
Tuesday I reached Liverpool.&nbsp; There I found that you were
probably in London, and so I came on.&nbsp; I have come only to see
you.&nbsp; I can understand that you should have been estranged from
me.&nbsp; That journey home is now so long ago!&nbsp; Our meeting in
New York was so short and wretched.&nbsp; I would not tell you
because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was
penniless.&nbsp; I have got my own now out from the very teeth of
robbers."&nbsp; As she said this, she looked as though she could be
very persistent in claiming her own,&mdash;or what she might think to be
her own.&nbsp; "I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I
would, and when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and
returned.&nbsp; And now I am here.&nbsp; I at any rate have been
faithful."&nbsp; As she said this his arm was again thrown over her,
so as to press her head to his knee.&nbsp; "And now," she said, "tell
me about yourself?"

<p>His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself.&nbsp;
Had he done his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from
him, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty
might have been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to
make her understand that he did not intend to become her
husband.&nbsp; But he was either too much of a man or too little of a
man for conduct such as that.&nbsp; He did make the avowal to
himself, even at that moment as she sat there.&nbsp; Let the matter
go as it would, she should never be his wife.&nbsp; He would marry no
one unless it was Hetta Carbury.&nbsp; But he did not at all know how
to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet with properly
apologetic courtesy.&nbsp; "I am engaged here about this railway," he
said.&nbsp; "You have heard, I suppose, of our projected scheme?"

<p>"Heard of it!&nbsp; San Francisco is full of it.&nbsp; Hamilton
Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your
uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars.&nbsp; And
yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you
Londoners.&nbsp; Many there are very hard upon Fisker for coming here
and doing as he did."

<p>"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling of
shame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.

<p>"You are the manager here in England?"

<p>"No,&mdash;I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco;
but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Ah I have heard of him.&nbsp; He is a great man;&mdash;a Frenchman, is
he not?&nbsp; There was a talk of inviting him to California.&nbsp;
You know him, of course?"

<p>"Yes,&mdash;I know him.&nbsp; I see him once a week."

<p>"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes
or lords.&nbsp; They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in
his right hand.&nbsp; What power;&mdash;what grandeur!"

<p>"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."

<p>"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs Hurtle, "as a great
general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a
nation.&nbsp; Such greatness is incompatible with small
scruples.&nbsp; A pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant
stalks over the rivers."

<p>"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said Montague.

<p>"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce.&nbsp; And I will grant
you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great
heights.&nbsp; To live in plenty by sticking to your counter from
nine in the morning to nine at night, is not a fine life.&nbsp; But
this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions
of dollars.&nbsp; Do they say here that he is not honest?"

<p>"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say
nothing against him."

<p>"Of course such a man will be abused.&nbsp; People have said that
Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor.&nbsp; You must take
me where I shall see Melmotte.&nbsp; He is a man whose hand I would
kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to
any of your Emperors."

<p>"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours
about coveting worldly wealth.&nbsp; All men and women break that
commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back
the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they
filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is
dear to them in the world.&nbsp; Here is a man who boldly says that
he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is
good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the
stronger and the nobler be can be.&nbsp; I love a man who can turn
the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."

<p>Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte.&nbsp; Though
connected with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as
vile a scoundrel as ever lived.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle's enthusiasm was
very pretty, and there was something of feminine eloquence in her
words.&nbsp; But it was shocking to see them lavished on such a
subject.&nbsp; "Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.

<p>"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove."

<p>"Oh no."

<p>"But you are prospering in this business?"

<p>"Yes,&mdash;I suppose we are prospering.&nbsp; It is one of those
hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really
prosperous till he is out of it.&nbsp; I fell into it altogether
against my will.&nbsp; I had no alternative."

<p>"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."

<p>"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."

<p>"That at any rate is well, Paul.&nbsp; And now,&mdash;now that we have
got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this
means.&nbsp; I have talked to no one after this fashion since we
parted.&nbsp; Why should our engagement be over?&nbsp; You used to
love me, did you not?"

<p>He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she
waited for an answer.&nbsp; "You know I did," he said.

<p>"I thought so.&nbsp; This I know, that you were sure and are sure
of my love to you.&nbsp; Is it not so?&nbsp; Come, speak openly like
a man.&nbsp; Do you doubt me?"

<p>He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so.&nbsp; "No,
indeed."

<p>"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,&mdash;fit for a
girl from a nursery!&nbsp; Out with it if you have anything to say
against me!&nbsp; You owe me so much at any rate.&nbsp; I have never
ill-treated you.&nbsp; I have never lied to you.&nbsp; I have taken
nothing from you,&mdash;if I have not taken your heart.&nbsp; I have given
you all that I can give."&nbsp; Then she leaped to her feet and stood
a little apart from him.&nbsp; "If you hate me, say so."

<p>"Winifred," he said, calling her by her name.

<p>"Winifred!&nbsp; Yes, now for the first time, though I have called
you Paul from the moment you entered the room.&nbsp; Well, speak
out.&nbsp; Is there another woman that you love?"

<p>At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no
coward.&nbsp; Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how
impetuous she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her
call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke.&nbsp; "There
is another," he said.

<p>She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would
commence her attack upon him.&nbsp; She fixed her eyes upon him,
standing quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers
of the left.&nbsp; "Oh," she said, in a whisper "that is the reason
why I am told that I am to be&mdash;off."

<p>"That was not the reason."

<p>"What,&mdash;can there be more reason than that,&mdash;better reason than
that?&nbsp; Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love
another so also you have learned to&mdash;hate me."

<p>"Listen to me, Winifred."

<p>"No, sir; no Winifred now!&nbsp; How did you dare to kiss me,
knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast
aside?&nbsp; And so you love&mdash;some other woman!&nbsp; I am too old to
please you, too rough,&mdash;too little like the dolls of your own
country!&nbsp; What were your&mdash;other reasons?&nbsp; Let me hear
your&mdash;other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies."

<p>The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward
by Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded.&nbsp; Paul knew but
little about Winifred Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr
Hurtle.&nbsp; His reasons curtly put forward might have been so
stated.&nbsp; "We know too little of each other," he said.

<p>"What more do you want to know?&nbsp; You can know all for the
asking.&nbsp; Did I ever refuse to answer you?&nbsp; As to my
knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you
complain?&nbsp; What is it that you want to know?&nbsp; Ask anything
and I will tell you.&nbsp; Is it about my money?&nbsp; You knew when
you gave me your word that I had next to none.&nbsp; Now I have ample
means of my own.&nbsp; You knew that I was a widow.&nbsp; What
more?&nbsp; If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I
will deluge you with stories.&nbsp; I should have thought that a man
who loved would not have cared to hear much of one&mdash;who perhaps was
loved once."

<p>He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible.&nbsp; It
would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons,
but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another
woman.&nbsp; He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured,
inconstant, and very base.&nbsp; A fault that may be venial to those
who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures,
in the eyes of the sufferer.&nbsp; He must have submitted to be told
that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of
punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him.&nbsp; But he
would have been called upon for no further mental effort.&nbsp; His
position would have been plain.&nbsp; But now he was all at
sea.&nbsp; "I wish to hear nothing," he said.

<p>"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other?&nbsp;
That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,&mdash;after you have
been false to her.&nbsp; Why did you not say that when we were in New
York together?&nbsp; Think of it, Paul.&nbsp; Is not that mean?"

<p>"I do not think that I am mean."

<p>"No;&mdash;a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always.&nbsp; Who
is&mdash;this lady?"

<p>He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning
Hetta Carbury's name.&nbsp; He had never even asked her for her love,
and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved.&nbsp; "I
cannot name her."

<p>"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to
return satisfied because you tell me that you have&mdash;changed your
affections?&nbsp; That is to be all, and you think that fair?&nbsp;
That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your
heart?&nbsp; You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go
away,&mdash;without a pang, without a scruple?"

<p>"I did not say so."

<p>"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus
Melmotte because you think him dishonest!&nbsp; Are you a liar?"

<p>"I hope not."

<p>"Did you say you would be my husband?&nbsp; Answer me, sir."

<p>"I did say so."

<p>"Do you now refuse to keep your promise?&nbsp; You shall answer
me."

<p>"I cannot marry you."

<p>"Then, sir, are you not a liar?"&nbsp; It would have taken him
long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a
promise and yet not tell a lie.&nbsp; He had made up his mind to
break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore
he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account.&nbsp; He had
been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her
past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband.&nbsp; If Mr
Hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he
did not marry Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; He did not think himself to be a
liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence.&nbsp; "Oh,
Paul," she said, changing at once into softness,&mdash;"I am pleading to
you for my life.&nbsp; Oh, that I could make you feel that I am
pleading for my life.&nbsp; Have you given a promise to this lady
also?"

<p>"No," said he.&nbsp; "I have given no promise."

<p>"But she loves you?"

<p>"She has never said so."

<p>"You have told her of your love?"

<p>"Never."

<p>"There is nothing, then, between you?&nbsp; And you would put her
against me,&mdash;some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of
complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you.&nbsp; Is
that so?"

<p>"I suppose it is," said Paul.

<p>"Then you may still be mine.&nbsp; Oh, Paul, come back to
me.&nbsp; Will any woman love you as I do,&mdash;live for you as I
do?&nbsp; Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no
friend,&mdash;not a single friend,&mdash;unless you are a friend.&nbsp; Listen
to me.&nbsp; I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry
you."

<p>"You have told the woman of the house?"

<p>"Certainly I have.&nbsp; Was I not justified?&nbsp; Were you not
engaged to me?&nbsp; Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk
her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find
accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the
truth as to the cause of my being here?&nbsp; I am here because you
have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I
am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the
town.&nbsp; I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul
Montague, who was joined with Mr Melmotte in managing the new great
American railway, and that Mr Paul Montague would be with me this
morning.&nbsp; She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she
doubted, I could have shown her your letters.&nbsp; Now go and tell
her that what I have said is false,&mdash;if you dare."&nbsp; The woman
was not there, and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave
the room in order that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had
ill-used.&nbsp; The position was one which required thought.&nbsp;
After a while he took up his hat to go.&nbsp; "Do you mean to tell
her that my statement is untrue?"

<p>"No,&mdash;" he said; "not to-day."

<p>"And you will come back to me?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I will come back."

<p>"I have no friend here, but you, Paul.&nbsp; Remember that.&nbsp;
Remember all your promises.&nbsp; Remember all our love,&mdash;and be good
to me."&nbsp; Then she let him go without another word.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="27"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXVII.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle Goes to the Play</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received
the following letter from Mrs Hurtle:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR PAUL,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I think that perhaps we hardly made
ourselves understood to each other yesterday, and I am sure that you
do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake.&nbsp;
I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to
make you conscious that I really love you.&nbsp; To a woman such love
is all important.&nbsp; She cannot throw it from her as a man may do
amidst the affairs of the world.&nbsp; Nor, if it has to be thrown
from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it.&nbsp; Her thoughts
have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;&mdash;and then too her
devotion has separated her from other things.&nbsp; My devotion to
you has separated me from everything.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I scorn to come to you as a
suppliant.&nbsp; If you choose to say after hearing me that you will
put me away from you because you have seen some one fairer than I am,
whatever course I may take in my indignation, I shall not throw
myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs.&nbsp; I wish, however,
that you should hear me.&nbsp; You say that there is some one you
love better than you love me, but that you have not committed
yourself to her.&nbsp; Alas, I know too much of the world to be
surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in
the absence of his mistress.&nbsp; A man cannot wrap himself up and
keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does.&nbsp; But I
think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now
that you have seen me again.&nbsp; I think that you must have owned
to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me
again.&nbsp; You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave
me.&nbsp; I have given up every friend I have to follow you.&nbsp; As
regards the other&mdash;nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you
tell me, she knows nothing of your passion.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You hinted that there were other
reasons,&mdash;that we know too little of each other.&nbsp; You meant no
doubt that you knew too little of me.&nbsp; Is it not the case that
you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those
days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented
by stories told you by your partners at San Francisco?&nbsp; If this
be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you
allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me.&nbsp; I
think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have
loved,&mdash;like a soiled glove,&mdash;because ill-natured words have been
spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her
life.&nbsp; My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in
the State of Kansas when I married him, I being then in possession of
a considerable fortune left to me by my mother.&nbsp; There his life
was infamously bad.&nbsp; He spent what money he could get of mine,
and then left me and the State, and took himself to Texas;&mdash;where he
drank himself to death.&nbsp; I did not follow him, and in his
absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas
State.&nbsp; I then went to San Francisco about property of my
mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countryman of
ours now resident in Paris,&mdash;having forged my name.&nbsp; There I met
you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be
told.&nbsp; It may be that you do not believe me now; but if so, are
you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my
word?<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I try to write dispassionately, but I
am in truth overborne by passion.&nbsp; I also have heard in
California rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your
letter.&nbsp; I resolved to follow you to England as soon as
circumstances would permit me.&nbsp; I have been forced to fight a
battle about my property, and I have won it.&nbsp; I had two reasons
for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw
you.&nbsp; I had begun it and had determined that I would not be
beaten by fraud.&nbsp; And I was also determined that I would not
plead to you as a pauper.&nbsp; We have talked too freely together in
past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in
alluding to them.&nbsp; When a man and woman have agreed to be
husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind.&nbsp; When
we came here together we were both embarrassed.&nbsp; We both had
some property, but neither of us could enjoy it.&nbsp; Since that I
have made my way through my difficulties.&nbsp; From what I have
heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the same.&nbsp; I
at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our
affairs can be made one.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And now about
myself,&mdash;immediately.&nbsp; I have come here all alone.&nbsp; Since I
last saw you in New York I have not had altogether a good time.&nbsp;
I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources
and have been all alone.&nbsp; Very cruel things have been said of
me.&nbsp; You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have
been said to you with reference to my late husband.&nbsp; Since that
they have been said to others with reference to you.&nbsp; I have not
now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a trunk full of
introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me.&nbsp;
It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate,&mdash;and
here I am.&nbsp; I appeal to you to release me in some degree from
the misery of my solitude.&nbsp; You know,&mdash;no one so well,&mdash;that my
nature is social and that I am not given to be melancholy.&nbsp; Let
us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a
day.&nbsp; Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as
I used to be seen.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Come to me and take me out with you,
and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres.&nbsp;
If you wish it I will promise you not to allude to that revelation
you made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my heart
than any other matter.&nbsp; Perhaps some woman's vanity makes me
think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used
to talk, you would think of me as you used to think.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You need not fear but you will find me
at home.&nbsp; I have no whither to go,&mdash;and shall hardly stir from
the house till you come to me.&nbsp; Send me a line, however, that I
may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours with all my heart,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WINIFRED HURTLE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This letter took her much time to write, though she was very
careful so to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from
her pen.&nbsp; She copied it from the first draught, but she copied
it rapidly, with one or two premeditated erasures, so that it should
look to have been done hurriedly.&nbsp; There had been much art in
it.&nbsp; She had at any rate suppressed any show of anger.&nbsp; In
calling him to her she had so written as to make him feel that if he
would come he need not fear the claws of an offended lioness:&mdash;and
yet she was angry as a lioness who had lost her cub.&nbsp; She had
almost ignored that other lady whose name she had not yet
heard.&nbsp; She had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that
other lady as a light thing which might easily be put aside.&nbsp;
She had said much of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the
wickedness of the wrong-doer.&nbsp; Invited as she had invited him,
surely he could not but come to her!&nbsp; And then, in her reference
to money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, she had
studied how to make him feel that he might marry her without
imprudence.&nbsp; As she read it over to herself she thought that
there was a tone through it of natural feminine uncautious
eagerness.&nbsp; She put her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp
on it and addressed,&mdash;it and then threw herself back in her chair to
think of her position.

<p>He should marry her,&mdash;or there should be something done which
should make the name of Winifred Hurtle known to the world!&nbsp; She
had no plan of revenge yet formed.&nbsp; She would not talk of
revenge,&mdash;she told herself that she would not even think of revenge
till she was quite sure that revenge would be necessary.&nbsp; But
she did think of it, and could not keep her thoughts from it for a
moment.&nbsp; Could it be possible that she, with all her
intellectual gifts as well as those of her outward person, should be
thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him,&mdash;and she did love
him with all her heart,&mdash;she regarded as greatly inferior to
herself!&nbsp; He had promised to marry her; and he should marry her,
or the world should hear the story of his perjury!

<p>Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon
as he read the letter.&nbsp; That his heart was all the other way he
was quite sure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape
from his troubles open to him.&nbsp; There was not a single word in
this woman's letter that he could contradict.&nbsp; He had loved her
and had promised to make her his wife,&mdash;and had determined to break
his word to her because he found that she was enveloped in dangerous
mystery.&nbsp; He had so resolved before he had ever seen Hetta
Carbury, having been made to believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage
with an unknown American woman,&mdash;of whom he only did know that she
was handsome and clever would be a step to ruin.&nbsp; The woman, as
Roger said, was an adventuress,&mdash;might never have had a
husband,&mdash;might at this moment have two or three,&mdash;might be
overwhelmed with debt,&mdash;might be anything bad, dangerous, and
abominable.&nbsp; All that he had heard at San Francisco had
substantiated Roger's views.&nbsp; "Any scrape is better than that
scrape," Roger had said to him.&nbsp; Paul had believed his Mentor,
and had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen Hetta
Carbury.

<p>But what should he do now?&nbsp; It was impossible, after what had
passed between them, that he should leave Mrs Hurtle at her lodgings
at Islington without any notice.&nbsp; It was clear enough to him
that she would not consent to be so left.&nbsp; Then her present
proposal,&mdash;though it seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the
tragical condition of their present circumstances,&mdash;had in it some
immediate comfort.&nbsp; To take her out and give her a dinner, and
then go with her to some theatre, would be easy and perhaps
pleasant.&nbsp; It would be easier, and certainly much pleasanter,
because she had pledged herself to abstain from talking of her
grievances.&nbsp; Then he remembered some happy evenings, delicious
hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were first together
at New York.&nbsp; There could be no better companion for such a
festival.&nbsp; She could talk,&mdash;and she could listen as well as
talk.&nbsp; And she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the
sense of her feminine charms by her simple proximity.&nbsp; He had
been very happy when so placed.&nbsp; Had it been possible he would
have escaped the danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in
some sort reconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty.

<p>But when the evening should be over, how would he part with
her?&nbsp; When the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had
brought her back to her door, what should he say to her then?&nbsp;
He must make some arrangement as to a future meeting.&nbsp; He knew
that he was in a great peril, and he did not know how he might best
escape it.&nbsp; He could not now go to Roger Carbury for advice; for
was not Roger Carbury his rival?&nbsp; It would be for his friend's
interest that he should marry the widow.&nbsp; Roger Carbury, as he
knew well, was too honest a man to allow himself to be guided in any
advice he might give by such a feeling, but, still, on this matter,
he could no longer tell everything to Roger Carbury.&nbsp; He could
not say all that he would have to say without speaking of Hetta;&mdash;and
of his love for Hetta he could not speak to his rival.

<p>He had no other friend in whom he could confide.&nbsp; There was
no other human being he could trust, unless it was Hetta
herself.&nbsp; He thought for a moment that he would write a stern
and true letter to the woman, telling her that as it was impossible
that there should ever be marriage between them, he felt himself
bound to abstain from her society.&nbsp; But then he remembered her
solitude, her picture of herself in London without even an
acquaintance except himself, and he convinced himself that it would
be impossible that he should leave her without seeing her.&nbsp; So
he wrote to her thus:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR WINIFRED,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I will come for you to-morrow at
half-past five.&nbsp; We will dine together at the Thespian;&mdash;and
then I will have a box at the Haymarket.&nbsp; The Thespian is a good
sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there.&nbsp; You can dine in
your bonnet.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours affectionately,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;P. M.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Some half-formed idea ran through his brain that P. M. was a safer
signature than Paul Montague.&nbsp; Then came a long train of
thoughts as to the perils of the whole proceeding.&nbsp; She had told
him that she had announced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house
as engaged to him, and he had in a manner authorized the statement by
declining to contradict it at once.&nbsp; And now, after that
announcement, he was assenting to her proposal that they should go
out and amuse themselves together.&nbsp; Hitherto she had always
seemed to him to be open, candid, and free from intrigue.&nbsp; He
had known her to be impulsive, capricious, at times violent, but
never deceitful.&nbsp; Perhaps he was unable to read correctly the
inner character of a woman whose experience of the world had been
much wider than his own.&nbsp; His mind misgave him that it might be
so; but still he thought that he knew that she was not
treacherous.&nbsp; And yet did not her present acts justify him in
thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him?&nbsp; The note,
however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of the play,
leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves.&nbsp; He
ordered the dinner and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he was
again at her lodgings.

<p>The woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs Hurtle's
sitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended to
welcome him as an accepted lover.&nbsp; It was a smile half of
congratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as a
woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made
fast.&nbsp; Who does not know the smile?&nbsp; What man, who has been
caught and made sure, has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being
so treated, understanding that the smile is intended to convey to him
a sense of his own captivity?&nbsp; It has, however, generally
mattered but little to us.&nbsp; If we have felt that something of
ridicule was intended, because we have been regarded as cocks with
their spurs cut away, then we also have a pride when we have declared
to ourselves that upon the whole we have gained more than we have
lost.&nbsp; But with Paul Montague at the present moment there was no
satisfaction, no pride,&mdash;only a feeling of danger which every hour
became deeper, and stronger, with less chance of escape.&nbsp; He was
almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman, and tell her the
truth,&mdash;and bear the immediate consequences.&nbsp; But there would be
treason in doing so, and he would not, could not do it.

<p>He was left hardly a moment to think of this.&nbsp; Almost before
the woman had shut the door, Mrs Hurtle came to him out of her
bedroom, with her hat on her head.&nbsp; Nothing could be more simple
than her dress, and nothing prettier.&nbsp; It was now June, and the
weather was warm, and the lady wore a light gauzy black dress,&mdash;there
is a fabric which the milliners I think call grenadine,&mdash;coming close
up round her throat.&nbsp; It was very pretty, and she was prettier
even than her dress.&nbsp; And she had on a hat, black also, small
and simple, but very pretty.&nbsp; There are times at which a man
going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to be bright in her
apparel,&mdash;almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly be contented
unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and her gloves of
some bright hue,&mdash;unless she wear roses or jewels in her hair.&nbsp;
It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go intending
that all the world shall know who they are.&nbsp; But there are times
again in which a man would prefer that his companion should be very
quiet in her dress,&mdash;but still pretty; in which he would choose that
she should dress herself for him only.&nbsp; All this Mrs Hurtle had
understood accurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing of
it, was gratified.&nbsp; "You told me to have a hat, and here I
am,&mdash;hat and all."&nbsp; She gave him her hand, and laughed, and
looked pleasantly at him, as though there was no cause of unhappiness
between them.&nbsp; The lodging-house woman saw them enter the cab,
and muttered some little word as they went off.&nbsp; Paul did not
hear the word, but was sure that it bore some indistinct reference to
his expected marriage.

<p>Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during the
performance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to her
engagement.&nbsp; It was with them, as in former days it had been at
New York.&nbsp; She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm
now and again with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better
inclined to listen than to speak.&nbsp; Now and again she referred,
after some slightest fashion, to little circumstances that had
occurred between them, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment
of delight; but it was done as one man might do it to another,&mdash;if any
man could have done it so pleasantly.&nbsp; There was a scent which he
had once approved, and now she bore it on her handkerchief.&nbsp;
There was a ring which he had once given her, and she wore it on the
finger with which she touched his sleeve.&nbsp; With his own hands he
had once adjusted her curls, and each curl was as he had placed
it.&nbsp; She had a way of shaking her head, that was very pretty,&mdash;a
way that might, one would think, have been dangerous at her age, as
likely to betray those first grey hairs which will come to disturb the
last days of youth.&nbsp; He had once told her in sport to be more
careful.&nbsp; She now shook her head again, and, as he smiled, she
told him that she could still dare to be careless.&nbsp; There are a
thousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearing
between acknowledged lovers, with which no woman would like to
dispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes with
delight; but which in other circumstances would be vulgar,&mdash;and to the
woman distasteful.&nbsp; There are closenesses and sweet approaches,
smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendoes and hints,
little mutual admirations and assurances that there are things known
to those two happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether
ignorant.&nbsp; Much of this comes of nature, but something of it
sometimes comes by art.&nbsp; Of such art as there may be in it Mrs
Hurtle was a perfect master.&nbsp; No allusion was made to their
engagement,&mdash;not an unpleasant word was spoken; but the art was
practised with all its pleasant adjuncts.&nbsp; Paul was flattered to
the top of his bent; and, though the sword was hanging over his head,
though he knew that the sword must fall,&mdash;must partly fall that very
night,&mdash;still he enjoyed it.

<p>There are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even though
they may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded by
things feminine in all the affairs of their lives.&nbsp; Others again
have their strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are
rarely altogether happy when removed from their influence.&nbsp; Paul
Montague was of the latter sort.&nbsp; At this time he was thoroughly
in love with Hetta Carbury, and was not in love with Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp;
He would have given much of his golden prospects in the American
railway to have had Mrs Hurtle reconveyed suddenly to San
Francisco.&nbsp; And yet he had a delight in her presence.&nbsp; "The
acting isn't very good," he said when the piece was nearly over.

<p>"What does it signify?&nbsp; What we enjoy or what we suffer
depends upon the humour.&nbsp; The acting is not first-rate, but I
have listened and laughed and cried, because I have been happy."

<p>He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and
was bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint.&nbsp; "It
has been very jolly," he said.

<p>"And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it.&nbsp;
I wonder whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her
lover talked to another woman.&nbsp; What I find fault with is that
the writers and actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them
every day.&nbsp; It's all right that she should cry, but she wouldn't
cry there."&nbsp; The position described was so nearly her own, that
he could say nothing to this.&nbsp; She had so spoken on
purpose,&mdash;fighting her own battle after her own fashion, knowing well
that her words would confuse him.&nbsp; "A woman hides such
tears.&nbsp; She may be found crying because she is unable to hide
them;&mdash;but she does not willingly let the other woman see them.&nbsp;
Does she?"

<p>"I suppose not."

<p>"Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa."

<p>"Women are not all Medeas," he replied.

<p>"There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them.&nbsp; I
am quite ready if you like.&nbsp; I never want to see the curtain
fall.&nbsp; And I have had no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to
throw on to the stage.&nbsp; Are you going to see me home?"

<p>"Certainly."

<p>"You need not.&nbsp; I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by
myself."&nbsp; But of course he accompanied her to Islington.&nbsp; He
owed her at any rate as much as that.&nbsp; She continued to talk
during the whole journey.&nbsp; What a wonderful place London was,&mdash;so
immense, but so dirty!&nbsp; New York of course was not so big, but
was, she thought, pleasanter.&nbsp; But Paris was the gem of gems
among towns.&nbsp; She did not like Frenchmen, and she liked
Englishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that she could
never like English women.&nbsp; "I do so hate all kinds of
buckram.&nbsp; I like good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be
not forced down one's throat; but I hate what your women call
propriety.&nbsp; I suppose what we have been doing to-night is very
improper; but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least
wicked."

<p>"I don't think it has," said Paul Montague very tamely.&nbsp; It is
a long way from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last the cab
reached the lodging-house door.&nbsp; "Yes, this is it," she
said.&nbsp; "Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked
propriety which frightens me."&nbsp; She was getting out as she spoke,
and he had already knocked at the door.&nbsp; "Come in for one
moment," she said as he paid the cabman.&nbsp; The woman the while was
standing with the door in her hand.&nbsp; It was near midnight,&mdash;but,
when people are engaged, hours do not matter.&nbsp; The woman of the
house, who was respectability herself,&mdash;a nice kind widow, with five
children, named Pipkin,&mdash;understood that and smiled again as he
followed the lady into the sitting-room.&nbsp; She had already taken
off her hat and was flinging it on to the sofa as he entered.&nbsp;
"Shut the door for one moment," she said; and he shut it.&nbsp; Then
she threw herself into his arms, not kissing him but looking up into
his face.&nbsp; "Oh Paul," she exclaimed, "my darling!&nbsp; Oh Paul,
my love!&nbsp; I will not bear to be separated from you.&nbsp; No,
no;&mdash;never.&nbsp; I swear it, and you may believe me.&nbsp; There is
nothing I cannot do for love of you,&mdash;but to lose you."&nbsp; Then she
pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her hands
together.&nbsp; "But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you
to-night.&nbsp; It was to be an island in our troubles, a little
holiday in our hard school-time, and I will not destroy it at its
close.&nbsp; You will see me again soon,&mdash;will you not?"&nbsp; He
nodded assent, then took her in his arms and kissed her, and left her
without a word.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="28"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXVIII.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe Goes into the City</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It has been told how the gambling at the Beargarden went on one
Sunday night.&nbsp; On the following Monday Sir Felix did not go to
the club.&nbsp; He had watched Miles Grendall at play, and was sure
that on more than one or two occasions the man had cheated.&nbsp; Sir
Felix did not quite know what in such circumstances it would be best
for him to do.&nbsp; Reprobate as he was himself, this work of
villainy was new to him and seemed to be very terrible.&nbsp; What
steps ought he to take?&nbsp; He was quite sure of his facts, and yet
he feared that Nidderdale and Grasslough and Longestaffe would not
believe him.&nbsp; He would have told Montague, but Montague had, he
thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be of any use to
him.&nbsp; On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club.&nbsp; He
felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been
accustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred
over.&nbsp; He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had
cheated him without saying anything about it.&nbsp; On the Wednesday
afternoon life was becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into
the building at about five in the afternoon.&nbsp; There, as a matter
of course, he found Dolly Longestaffe drinking sherry and
bitters.&nbsp; "Where the blessed angels have you been?" said
Dolly.&nbsp; Dolly was at that moment alert with the sense of a duty
performed.&nbsp; He had just called on his sister and written a sharp
letter to his father, and felt himself to be almost a man of business.

<p>"I've had fish of my own to fry," said Felix, who had passed the
last two days in unendurable idleness.&nbsp; Then he referred again to
the money which Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed
asking for immediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance
that if a commercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this
moment, be very serviceable to him.&nbsp; "I'm particularly anxious to
take up those shares," said Felix.

<p>"Of course you ought to have your money."

<p>"I don't say that at all, old fellow.&nbsp; I know very well that
you're all right.&nbsp; You're not like that fellow, Miles Grendall."

<p>"Well; no.&nbsp; Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself
with.&nbsp; I suppose I could get it, and so I ought to pay."

<p>"That's no excuse for Grendall," said Sir Felix, shaking his head.

<p>"A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carbury.&nbsp; A chap ought
to pay of course.&nbsp; I've had a letter from our lawyer within the
last half hour&mdash;here it is."&nbsp; And Dolly pulled a letter out of
his pocket which he had opened and read indeed the last hour, but
which had been duly delivered at his lodgings early in the
morning.&nbsp; "My governor wants to sell Pickering, and Melmotte
wants to buy the place.&nbsp; My governor can't sell without me, and
I've asked for half the plunder.&nbsp; I know what's what.&nbsp; My
interest in the property is greater than his.&nbsp; It isn't much of a
place, and they are talking of &pound;50,000, over and above the debt upon
it.&nbsp; &pound;25,000 would pay off what I owe on my own property, and
make me very square.&nbsp; From what this fellow says I suppose
they're going to give in to my terms."

<p>"By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly."

<p>"Oh yes.&nbsp; Of course I want it.&nbsp; But I don't like the
place going.&nbsp; I'm not much of a fellow, I know.&nbsp; I'm awfully
lazy and can't get myself to go in for things as I ought to do; but
I've a sort of feeling that I don't like the family property going to
pieces.&nbsp; A fellow oughtn't to let his family property go to
pieces."

<p>"You never lived at Pickering."

<p>"No;&mdash;and I don't know that it is any good.&nbsp; It gives us 3 per
cent. on the money it's worth, while the governor is paying 6 per
cent., and I'm paying 25, for the money we've borrowed.&nbsp; I know
more about it than you'd think.&nbsp; It ought to be sold, and now I
suppose it will be sold.&nbsp; Old Melmotte knows all about it, and if
you like I'll go with you to the city to-morrow and make it straight
about what I owe you.&nbsp; He'll advance me &pound;1,000, and then you can
get the shares.&nbsp; Are you going to dine here?"

<p>Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, with
considerable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and play
whist afterwards.&nbsp; He acceded willingly to Dolly's plans of
visiting Abchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty
in inducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for
city purposes.&nbsp; Dolly suggested that they should meet at the club
at 4 p.m. Sir Felix had named noon, and promised to call at Dolly's
lodgings.&nbsp; They split the difference at last and agreed to start
at two.&nbsp; They then dined together, Miles Grendall dining alone at
the next table to them.&nbsp; Dolly and Grendall spoke to each other
frequently, but in that conversation the young baronet would not
join.&nbsp; Nor did Grendall ever address himself to Sir Felix.&nbsp;
"Is there anything up between you and Miles?" said Dolly, when they
had adjourned to the smoking-room.

<p>"I can't bear him."

<p>"There never was any love between you two, I know.&nbsp; But you
used to speak, and you've played with him all through."

<p>"Played with him!&nbsp; I should think I have.&nbsp; Though he did
get such a haul last Sunday he owes me more than you do now."

<p>"Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?"

<p>Sir Felix paused a moment.&nbsp; "No;&mdash;that is not the
reason.&nbsp; I'll tell you all about it in the cab to-morrow."&nbsp;
Then he left the club, declaring that he would go up to Grosvenor
Square and see Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; He did go up to the Square, and
when he came to the house he would not go in.&nbsp; What was the
good?&nbsp; He could do nothing further till he got old Melmotte's
consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as by showing that
he had got money wherewith to buy shares in the railway.&nbsp; What he
did with himself during the remainder of the evening the reader need
not know, but on his return home at some comparatively early hour, he
found this note from Marie.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Wednesday Afternoon.<br>
<br>
DEAREST FELIX,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Why don't we see you?&nbsp; Mamma would
say nothing if you came.&nbsp; Papa is never in the
drawing-room.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe is here of course, and people
always come in in the evening.&nbsp; We are just going to dine out at
the Duchess of Stevenage's.&nbsp; Papa, and mamma and I.&nbsp; Mamma
told me that Lord Nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit
afraid.&nbsp; I don't like Lord Nidderdale, and I will never take any
one but the man I love.&nbsp; You know who that is.&nbsp; Miss
Longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us.&nbsp; What do
you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left
alone?&nbsp; We are to go afterwards to a musical party at Lady
Gamut's.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe is going with us, but she says she
hates music.&nbsp; She is such a set-up thing!&nbsp; I wonder why papa
has her here.&nbsp; We don't go anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray
come.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And why haven't you written me something
and sent it to Didon?&nbsp; She won't betray us.&nbsp; And if she did,
what matters?&nbsp; I mean to be true.&nbsp; If papa were to beat me
into a mummy I would stick to you.&nbsp; He told me once to take Lord
Nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him.&nbsp; And now he wants
me to take him again.&nbsp; But I won't.&nbsp; I'll take no one but my
own darling.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours for ever and ever,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MARIE<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Now that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own in
life, she was determined to make the most of it.&nbsp; All this was
delightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply "a bother."&nbsp;
Sir Felix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow,&mdash;on condition
of course that the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing
to go through much work in the way of love-making with Marie
Melmotte.&nbsp; In such business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a
companion.

<p>On the following day Felix was with his friend at the appointed
time, and was only kept an hour waiting while Dolly ate his breakfast
and struggled into his coat and boots.&nbsp; On their way to the city
Felix told his dreadful story about Miles Grendall.&nbsp; "By George!"
said Dolly.&nbsp; "And you think you saw him do it!"

<p>"It's not thinking at all.&nbsp; I'm sure I saw him do it three
times.&nbsp; I believe he always had an ace somewhere about
him."&nbsp; Dolly sat quite silent thinking of it.&nbsp; "What had I
better do?" asked Sir Felix.

<p>"By George;&mdash;I don't know."

<p>"What should you do?"

<p>"Nothing at all.&nbsp; I shouldn't believe my own eyes.&nbsp; Or
if I did, should take care not to look at him."

<p>"You wouldn't go on playing with him?"

<p>"Yes I should.&nbsp; It'd be such a bore breaking up."

<p>"But Dolly,&mdash;if you think of it!"

<p>"That's all very fine, my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it."

<p>"And you won't give me your advice."

<p>"Well&mdash;no; I think I'd rather not.&nbsp; I wish you hadn't told
me.&nbsp; Why did you pick me out to tell me?&nbsp; Why didn't you
tell Nidderdale?"

<p>"He might have said, why didn't you tell Longestaffe?"

<p>"No, he wouldn't.&nbsp; Nobody would suppose that anybody would
pick me out for this kind of thing.&nbsp; If I'd known that you were
going to tell me such a story as this I wouldn't have come with you."

<p>"That's nonsense, Dolly."

<p>"Very well.&nbsp; I can't bear these kind of things.&nbsp; I feel
all in a twitter already."

<p>"You mean to go on playing just the same?"

<p>"Of course I do.&nbsp; If he won anything very heavy I should begin
to think about it, I suppose.&nbsp; Oh; this is Abchurch Lane, is
it?&nbsp; Now for the man of money."

<p>The man of money received them much more graciously than Felix had
expected.&nbsp; Of course nothing was said about Marie and no further
allusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's
"property."&nbsp; Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the
quick way in which the great financier understood their views and the
readiness with which he undertook to comply with them.&nbsp; No
disagreeable questions were asked as to the nature of the debt between
the young men.&nbsp; Dolly was called upon to sign a couple of
documents, and Sir Felix to sign one,&mdash;and then they were assured that
the thing was done.&nbsp; Mr Adolphus Longestaffe had paid Sir Felix
Carbury a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carbury's commission had been
accepted by Mr Melmotte for the purchase of railway stock to that
amount.&nbsp; Sir Felix attempted to say a word.&nbsp; He endeavoured
to explain that his object in this commercial transaction was to make
money immediately by reselling the shares,&mdash;and to go on continually
making money by buying at a low price and selling at a high
price.&nbsp; He no doubt did believe that, being a Director, if he
could once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on with
it for an unlimited period;&mdash;buy and sell, buy and sell;&mdash;so that he
would have an almost regular income.&nbsp; This, as far as he could
understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do,&mdash;simply because
he had become a Director with a little money.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was
cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into
particulars.&nbsp; It was all right.&nbsp; "You will wish to sell
again, of course,&mdash;of course.&nbsp; I'll watch the market for
you."&nbsp; When the young men left the room all they knew, or thought
that they knew, was, that Dolly Longestaffe had authorized Melmotte to
pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to Sir Felix, and that Sir Felix
had instructed the same great man to buy shares with the amount.&nbsp;
"But why didn't he give you the scrip?" said Dolly on his way
westwards.

<p>"I suppose it's all right with him," said Sir Felix.

<p>"Oh yes;&mdash;it's all right.&nbsp; Thousands of pounds to him are only
like half-crowns to us fellows.&nbsp; I should say it's all
right.&nbsp; All the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you
know."&nbsp; Sir Felix already began to be unhappy about his thousand
pounds.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="29"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXVIX.&nbsp; Miss Melmotte's Courage</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the
prosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he
was persecuted.&nbsp; "I have spoken to her father," he said crossly.

<p>"And what did Mr Melmotte say?"

<p>"Say;&mdash;what should he say?&nbsp; He wanted to know what income I
had got.&nbsp; After all he's an old screw."

<p>"Did he forbid you to come there any more?"

<p>"Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me.&nbsp; If you'll
let me alone I'll do the best I can."

<p>"She has accepted you, herself?"

<p>"Of course she has.&nbsp; I told you that at Carbury."

<p>"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her.&nbsp; I would
indeed.&nbsp; It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it
when you marry the girl.&nbsp; You could do it now because I know
you've got money.&nbsp; From all I can hear she's just the sort of
girl that would go with you."&nbsp; The son sat silent, listening to
these maternal councils.&nbsp; He did believe that Marie would go off
with him, were he to propose the scheme to her.&nbsp; Her own father
had almost alluded to such a proceeding,&mdash;had certainly hinted that it
was feasible,&mdash;but at the same time had very clearly stated that in
such case the ardent lover would have to content himself with the lady
alone.&nbsp; In any such event as that there would be no
fortune.&nbsp; But then, might not that only be a threat?&nbsp; Rich
fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with
only one child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as
she would do in this instance, graced with a title.&nbsp; Sir Felix
thought of all this as he sat there silent.&nbsp; His mother read his
thoughts as she continued.&nbsp; "Of course, Felix, there must be some
risk."

<p>"Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!" he
exclaimed.&nbsp; "I couldn't bear it.&nbsp; I think I should kill
her."

<p>"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that.&nbsp; But when I say there
would be some risk I mean that there would be very little.&nbsp; There
would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry.&nbsp; He
has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to
have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone
in the world."

<p>"I couldn't live with him, you know.&nbsp; I couldn't do it."

<p>"You needn't live with him, Felix.&nbsp; Of course she would visit
her parents.&nbsp; When the money was once settled you need see as
little of them as you pleased.&nbsp; Pray do not allow trifles to
interfere with you.&nbsp; If this should not succeed, what are you to
do?&nbsp; We shall all starve unless something be done.&nbsp; If I
were you, Felix, I would take her away at once.&nbsp; They say she is
of age."

<p>"I shouldn't know where to take her," said Sir Felix, almost
stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made
to him.&nbsp; "All that about Scotland is done with now."

<p>"Of course you would marry her at once."

<p>"I suppose so,&mdash;unless it were better to stay as we were, till the
money was settled."

<p>"Oh no; no!&nbsp; Everybody would be against you.&nbsp; If you take
her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will
be with you.&nbsp; That's what you want.&nbsp; The father and mother
will be sure to come round, if&mdash;"

<p>"The mother is nothing."

<p>"He will come round if people speak up in your favour.&nbsp; I
could get Mr Alf and Mr Broune to help.&nbsp; I'd try it, Felix;
indeed I would.&nbsp; Ten thousand a year is not to be had every
year."

<p>Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views.&nbsp; He felt no
desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the
matter.&nbsp; But the prospect was so grand that it had excited even
him.&nbsp; He had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if
he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again
find himself so circumstanced.&nbsp; He thought that he would ask
somebody whither he ought to take her, and what he ought to do with
her;&mdash;and that he would then make the proposition to herself.&nbsp;
Miles Grendall would be the man to tell him, because, with all his
faults, Miles did understand things.&nbsp; But he could not ask
Miles.&nbsp; He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale
wanted the girl for himself.&nbsp; Grasslough would be sure to tell
Nidderdale.&nbsp; Dolly would be altogether useless.&nbsp; He thought
that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him.&nbsp; There
would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate
"a fellow,"&mdash;if "the fellow" paid him.

<p>On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by
Marie,&mdash;but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room.&nbsp;
Lord Nidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the
Marquis of Auld Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not
know.&nbsp; He was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes,
and very stiff grey hair,&mdash;almost white.&nbsp; He was standing up
supporting himself on two sticks when Sir Felix entered the
room.&nbsp; There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe,
and Marie.&nbsp; As Felix had entered the hail one huge footman had
said that the ladies were not at home; then there had been for a
moment a whispering behind a door,&mdash;in which he afterwards conceived
that Madame Didon had taken a part;&mdash;and upon that a second tall
footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the
drawing-room.&nbsp; He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands
with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of
him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; He had not had time to place
himself, when the Marquis arranged things.&nbsp; "Suppose we go
downstairs," said the Marquis.

<p>"Certainly, my lord," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "I'll show your lordship
the way."&nbsp; The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him
with his stick, as though poking him out of the door.&nbsp; So
instigated, Nidderdale followed the financier, and the gouty old
Marquis toddled after them.

<p>Madame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation.&nbsp; "You
should not have been made to come up at all," she said.&nbsp; "Il faut
que vous vous retiriez."

<p>"I am very sorry," said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast.&nbsp; "I
think that I had at any rate better retire," said Miss Longestaffe,
raising herself to her full height and stalking out of the room.

<p>"Qu'elle est m&eacute;chante," said Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; "Oh, she
is so bad.&nbsp; Sir Felix, you had better go too.&nbsp;
Yes,&mdash;indeed."

<p>"No," said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm.&nbsp;
"Why should he go?&nbsp; I want papa to know."

<p>"Il vous tuera," said Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; "My God, yes."

<p>"Then he shall," said Marie, clinging to her lover.&nbsp; "I will
never marry Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; If he were to cut me into bits I
wouldn't do it.&nbsp; Felix, you love me; do you not?"

<p>"Certainly," said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.

<p>"Mamma," said Marie, "I will never have any other man but
him;&mdash;never, never, never.&nbsp; Oh, Felix, tell her that you love
me."

<p>"You know that, don't you, ma'am?"&nbsp; Sir Felix was a little
troubled in his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.

<p>"Oh, love!&nbsp; It is a beastliness," said Madame Melmotte.&nbsp;
"Sir Felix, you had better go.&nbsp; Yes, indeed.&nbsp; Will you be so
obliging?"

<p>"Don't go," said Marie.&nbsp; "No, mamma, he shan't go.&nbsp; What
has he to be afraid of?&nbsp; I will walk down among them into papa's
room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my
lover.&nbsp; Felix, will you come?"

<p>Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition.&nbsp; There had been
a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a
heavy sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the
invitation.&nbsp; "I don't think I have a right to do that," he said,
"because it is Mr Melmotte's own house."

<p>"I wouldn't mind," said Marie.&nbsp; "I told papa to-day that I
wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale."

<p>"Was he angry with you?"

<p>"He laughed at me.&nbsp; He manages people till he thinks that
everybody must do exactly what he tells them.&nbsp; He may kill me,
but I will not do it.&nbsp; I have quite made up my mind.&nbsp; Felix,
if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us.&nbsp; I will not
be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you."

<p>Madame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was
sighing.&nbsp; Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's
waist listening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to
them,&mdash;when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the
stairs.&nbsp; "C'est lui," screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from
her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door.&nbsp; The two
lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her
face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips.&nbsp; "Now be brave," she said,
escaping from his arm, "and I'll be brave."&nbsp; Mr Melmotte looked
round the room as he entered.&nbsp; "Where are the others?" he asked.

<p>"Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma."

<p>"Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is
engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale."

<p>"Sir Felix, I am not engaged&mdash;to&mdash;marry Lord Nidderdale," said
Marie.&nbsp; "It's no good, papa.&nbsp; I won't do it.&nbsp; If you
chop me to pieces, I won't do it."

<p>"She will marry Lord Nidderdale," continued Mr Melmotte, addressing
himself to Sir Felix.&nbsp; "As that is arranged, you will perhaps
think it better to leave us.&nbsp; I shall be happy to renew my
acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognized;&mdash;or happy to
see you in the city at any time."

<p>"Papa, he is my lover," said Marie.

<p>"Pooh!"

<p>"It is not pooh.&nbsp; He is.&nbsp; I will never have any
other.&nbsp; I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man,
I could not bear to look at him.&nbsp; Sir Felix is as good a
gentleman as he is.&nbsp; If you loved me, papa, you would not want to
make me unhappy all my life."

<p>Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she
clung only the closer to her lover's arm.&nbsp; At this moment Sir
Felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished
himself out in the square.&nbsp; "Jade," said Melmotte, "get to your
room."

<p>"Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa."

<p>"I do tell you.&nbsp; How dare you take hold of him in that way
before me!&nbsp; Have you no idea of disgrace?"

<p>"I am not disgraced.&nbsp; It is not more disgraceful to love him
than that other man.&nbsp; Oh, papa, don't.&nbsp; You hurt me.&nbsp; I
am going."&nbsp; He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door,
and then thrust her out.

<p>"I am very sorry, Mr Melmotte," said Sir Felix, "to have had a hand
in causing this disturbance."

<p>"Go away, and don't come back any more;&mdash;that's all.&nbsp; You
can't both marry her.&nbsp; All you have got to understand is
this.&nbsp; I'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if
she marries against my consent.&nbsp; By the God that hears me, Sir
Felix, she shall not have one shilling.&nbsp; But look you,&mdash;if you'll
give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you
may wish to have done in the city."

<p>After this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the
door opened for him, and was ushered into the square.&nbsp; But as he
went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand
which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp.&nbsp; It
was dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray
which had just taken place.&nbsp; It ran as follows:

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I hope you will come to-night.&nbsp;
There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know
it.&nbsp; When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot
of money on me.&nbsp; I don't know how much, but I suppose it was
enough to live on if other things went wrong.&nbsp; He never talked to
me about it, but I know it was done.&nbsp; And it hasn't been undone,
and can't be without my leave.&nbsp; He is very angry about you this
morning, for I told him I would never give you up.&nbsp; He says he
won't give me anything if I marry without his leave.&nbsp; But I am
sure he cannot take it away.&nbsp; I tell you, because I think I ought
to tell you everything.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;M.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become
engaged to a very enterprising young lady.&nbsp; It was evident that
she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her
lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him.&nbsp; But Sir Felix saw
no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to
the girl's name, if he could lay his bands on it.&nbsp; He did not
know much of such transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte,
and could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to
secure a portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on
his daughter.&nbsp; Whether, having so settled it, he could again
resume it without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know.&nbsp;
Marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive
instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit
which she might possibly derive from it.&nbsp; Her proposition, put
into plain English, amounted to this: "Take me and marry me without my
father's consent,&mdash;and then you and I together can rob my father of
the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me."&nbsp;
He had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing,
without any special character of her own, who was made worthy of
consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but
now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than
that.&nbsp; She had had a will of her own when the mother had
none.&nbsp; She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir
Felix, had trembled before him.&nbsp; She had offered to be beaten,
and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover.&nbsp; There
could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked.

<p>It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great
deal of experience, and that things which heretofore had been
troublesome to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now
coming easily within his reach.&nbsp; He had won two or three thousand
pounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of the
small play in which he had before indulged.&nbsp; He had been set to
marry this heiress, having at first no great liking for the attempt,
because of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which it
offered him.&nbsp; The girl was already willing and anxious to jump
into his arms.&nbsp; Then he had detected a man cheating at cards,&mdash;an
extent of iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it,&mdash;and
was already beginning to think that there was not very much in
that.&nbsp; If there was not much in it, if such a man as Miles
Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, why
should not he try it?&nbsp; It was a rapid way of winning, no
doubt.&nbsp; He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked
his adversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he had
observed that there was no honour at the bottom.&nbsp; No feeling of
honesty had interfered with him.&nbsp; The little trick had hardly
been premeditated, but when successful without detection had not
troubled his conscience.&nbsp; Now it seemed to him that much more
than that might be done without detection.&nbsp; But nothing had
opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet
lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her
father.&nbsp; It certainly recommended the girl to him.&nbsp; She had
been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of a very secluded
life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty,
those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great
enterprises in the minds of men.

<p>What should he do next?&nbsp; This sum of money of which Marie
wrote so easily was probably large.&nbsp; It would not have been worth
the while of such a man as Mr Melmotte to make a trifling provision of
this nature.&nbsp; It could hardly be less than &pound;50,000,&mdash;might
probably be very much more.&nbsp; But this was certain to him,&mdash;that
if he and Marie were to claim this money as man and wife, there could
then be no hope of further liberality.&nbsp; It was not probable that
such a man as Mr Melmotte would forgive even an only child such an
offence as that.&nbsp; Even if it were obtained, &pound;50,000 would not be
very much.&nbsp; And Melmotte might probably have means, even if the
robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money
very uncomfortable.&nbsp; These were deep waters into which Sir Felix
was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether
comfortable, although he liked the deep waters.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="30"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXX.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte's Promise</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr Alf's paper, the
"Evening Pulpit," a very remarkable article on the South Central
Pacific and Mexican Railway.&nbsp; It was an article that attracted a
great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in
nothing more remarkable than in this,&mdash;that it left on the mind of
its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the
railway.&nbsp; The Editor would at any future time be able to refer
to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a
great cosmopolitan fact, or whether it should collapse amidst the
foul struggles of a horde of swindlers.&nbsp; In utrumque paratus,
the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed,&mdash;that
in the "Evening Pulpit" was a matter of course,&mdash;and, above all
things, ironical.&nbsp; Next to its omniscience its irony was the
strongest weapon belonging to the "Evening Pulpit."&nbsp; There was a
little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served
Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; There was a little praise, given of course in
irony, to Mr Melmotte's Board of English Directors.&nbsp; There was a
good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed
on the idea of civilizing Mexico by joining it to California.&nbsp;
Praise was bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, but
accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe
thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself.&nbsp; Then
there was something said of the universality of Mr Melmotte's
commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate
failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled
commercial splendour, no one could tell.

<p>It was generally said at the clubs that Mr Alf had written this
article himself.&nbsp; Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men
possessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves Paides
Pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this
last forty years, professed that he saw through the article.&nbsp;
The "Evening Pulpit" had been, he explained, desirous of going as far
as it could in denouncing Mr Melmotte without incurring the danger of
an action for libel.&nbsp; Mr Splinter thought that the thing was
clever but mean.&nbsp; These new publications generally were
mean.&nbsp; Mr Splinter was constant in that opinion; but, putting
the meanness aside, he thought that the article was well done.&nbsp;
According to his view it was intended to expose Mr Melmotte and the
railway.&nbsp; But the Paides Pallados generally did not agree with
him.&nbsp; Under such an interpretation, what had been the meaning of
that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the work of
joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest approach to
divinity that had been granted to men?&nbsp; Old Splinter chuckled
and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was not wit
enough left now even among the Paides Pallados to understand a shaft
of irony.&nbsp; There could be no doubt, however, at the time, that
the world did not go with old Splinter, and that the article served
to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise.

<p>Lady Carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up
the railway, and took great joy in it.&nbsp; She entertained in her
brain a somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir
herself in the right direction and could induce her son to open his
eyes to his own advantage, very great things might be achieved, so
that wealth might become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the
right of his life.&nbsp; He was the beloved and the accepted suitor
of Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; He was a Director of this great company,
sitting at the same board with the great commercial hero.&nbsp; He
was the handsomest young man in London.&nbsp; And he was a
baronet.&nbsp; Very wild Ideas occurred to her.&nbsp; Should she take
Mr Alf into her entire confidence?&nbsp; If Melmotte and Alf could be
brought together what might they not do?&nbsp; Alf could write up
Melmotte, and Melmotte could shower shares upon Alf.&nbsp; And if
Melmotte would come and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as
she thought that she could flatter him, be told that he was a god,
and have that passage about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean
construed to him as she could construe it, would not the great man
become plastic under her hands?&nbsp; And if, while this was a-doing,
Felix would run away with Marie, could not forgiveness be made
easy?&nbsp; And her creative mind ranged still farther.&nbsp; Mr
Broune might help, and even Mr Booker.&nbsp; To such a one as
Melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the
confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken
support of the Press would be everything.&nbsp; Who would not buy
shares in a railway as to which Mr Broune and Mr Alf would combine in
saying that it was managed by "divinity"?&nbsp; Her thoughts were
rather hazy, but from day to day she worked hard to make them clear
to herself.

<p>On the Sunday afternoon Mr Booker called on her and talked to her
about the article.&nbsp; She did not say much to Mr Booker as to her
own connection with Mr Melmotte, telling herself that prudence was
essential in the present emergency.&nbsp; But she listened with all
her ears.&nbsp; It was Mr Booker's idea that the man was going "to
make a spoon or spoil a horn."&nbsp; "You think him honest;&mdash;don't
you?" asked Lady Carbury.&nbsp; Mr Booker smiled and hesitated.&nbsp;
"Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large
transactions."

<p>"Perhaps that is the best way of putting it," said Mr Booker.

<p>"If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity,
simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor
to his race by creating that belief?"

<p>"At the expense of veracity?" suggested Mr Booker.

<p>"At the expense of anything?" rejoined Lady Carbury with
energy.&nbsp; "One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule."

<p>"You would do evil to produce good?" asked Mr Booker.

<p>"I do not call it doing evil.&nbsp; You have to destroy a thousand
living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do
not think of that when you are athirst.&nbsp; You cannot send a ship
to sea without endangering lives.&nbsp; You do send ships to sea
though men perish yearly.&nbsp; You tell me this man may perhaps ruin
hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions
will be rich and happy."

<p>"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."

<p>"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady
Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite
satisfied with herself as she picked them.&nbsp; "Did I hold your
place, Mr Booker, in the literature of my country&mdash;"

<p>"I hold no place, Lady Carbury."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;and a very distinguished place.&nbsp; Were I circumstanced
as you are I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of
my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great
a man and so great an object as this."

<p>"I should be dismissed to-morrow," said Mr Booker, getting up and
laughing as he took his departure.&nbsp; Lady Carbury felt that, as
regarded Mr Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could
not do any harm.&nbsp; She had not expected to effect much through Mr
Booker's instrumentality.&nbsp; On the Tuesday evening,&mdash;her regular
Tuesday as she called it,&mdash;all her three editors came to her
drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of
them.&nbsp; She had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying
anything to anybody had written to Mr Melmotte himself, asking him to
honour her poor house with his presence.&nbsp; She had written a very
pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at Caversham,
telling him that on a former occasion Madame Melmotte and his
daughter had been so kind as to come to her, and giving him to
understand that of all the potentates now on earth he was the one to
whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction.&nbsp; He
wrote back,&mdash;or Miles Grendall did for him,&mdash;a very plain note,
accepting the honour of Lady Carbury's invitation.

<p>The great man came, and Lady Carbury took him under her immediate
wing with a grace that was all her own.&nbsp; She said a word about
their dear friends at Caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's
engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the
utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "Pulpit."&nbsp; Her
friend, Mr Alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness
of Mr Melmotte's character, and the magnificence of Mr Melmotte's
undertakings.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte bowed and muttered something that was
inaudible.&nbsp; "Now I must introduce you to Mr Alf," said the
lady.&nbsp; The introduction was effected, and Mr Alf explained that
it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of
Mr Melmotte's guests.

<p>"There were a great many there I never saw, and probably never
shall see," said Mr Melmotte.

<p>"I was one of the unfortunates," said Mr Alf.

<p>"I'm sorry you were unfortunate.&nbsp; If you had come into the
whist room you would have found me."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;if I had but known!" said Mr Alf.&nbsp; The editor, as was
proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper
used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmotte.

<p>Lady Carbury, finding that no immediate good results could be
expected from this last introduction, tried another.&nbsp; "Mr
Melmotte," she said, whispering to him, "I do so want to make you
known to Mr Broune.&nbsp; Mr Broune I know you have never met
before.&nbsp; A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor
than one published in the afternoon.&nbsp; Mr Broune, as of course
you know, manages the 'Breakfast Table.'&nbsp; There is hardly a more
influential man in London than Mr Broune.&nbsp; And they declare, you
know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated
the fact, "that his commercial articles are gospel,&mdash;absolutely
gospel."&nbsp; Then the two men were named to each other, and Lady
Carbury retreated;&mdash;but not out of hearing.

<p>"Getting very hot," said Mr Melmotte.

<p>"Very hot indeed," said Mr Broune.

<p>"It was over 70 in the city to-day.&nbsp; I call that very hot for
June."

<p>"Very hot indeed," said Mr Broune again.&nbsp; Then the
conversation was over.&nbsp; Mr Broune sidled away, and Mr Melmotte
was left standing in the middle of the room.&nbsp; Lady Carbury told
herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day.&nbsp; She
would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a
few more bricks on this day.&nbsp; Perseverance, however, was the
thing wanted.

<p>But Mr Melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the
house he said it.&nbsp; "It was very good of you to ask me, Lady
Carbury;&mdash;very good."&nbsp; Lady Carbury intimated her opinion that
the goodness was all on the other side.&nbsp; "And I came," continued
Mr Melmotte, "because I had something particular to say.&nbsp;
Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties.&nbsp; Your son has
proposed to my daughter."&nbsp; Lady Carbury looked up into his face
with all her eyes;&mdash;clasped both her hands together; and then, having
unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve.

<p>"My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man."

<p>"You would not enslave her affections, Mr Melmotte?"

<p>"I won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's
all.&nbsp; You reminded me down at Caversham that your son is a
Director at our Board."

<p>"I did;&mdash;I did."

<p>"I have a great respect for your son, ma'am.&nbsp; I don't want to
hurt him in any way.&nbsp; If he'll signify to my daughter that he
withdraws from this offer of his, because I'm against it, I'll see
that he does uncommon well in the city.&nbsp; I'll be the making of
him.&nbsp; Good night, ma'am."&nbsp; Then Mr Melmotte took his
departure without another word.

<p>Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man
that he would be the "making of Felix," if Felix would only obey
him,&mdash;accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance
that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not
give his son-in-law a shilling!&nbsp; There was very much to be
considered in this.&nbsp; She did not doubt that Felix might be
"made" by Mr Melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of
such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared
that he did not possess.&nbsp; The wife without the money would be
terrible!&nbsp; That would be absolute ruin!&nbsp; There could be no
escape then; no hope.&nbsp; There was an appreciation of real tragedy
in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married
to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmotte to be, without any
means of support for either of them but what she could supply.&nbsp;
It would kill her.&nbsp; And for those young people there would be
nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse.&nbsp; As she
thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts.&nbsp; Her
beautiful boy,&mdash;so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she
thought him, for all the graces of the grand world!&nbsp; Though the
ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and
disinterested.

<p>But the girl was an only child.&nbsp; The future honours of the
house of Melmotte could be made to settle on no other head.&nbsp; No
doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having
that preference, would of course do as he was now doing.&nbsp; That
he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary
to his wishes was to be expected.&nbsp; But would it not be equally a
matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it
were once effected?&nbsp; His daughter would return to him with a
title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition
desired.&nbsp; To herself personally, Lady Carbury felt that the
great financier had been very rude.&nbsp; He had taken advantage of
her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten
her.&nbsp; But she would forgive that.&nbsp; She could pass that over
altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over.

<p>She looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might
consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence.&nbsp; Her
most natural friend was Roger Carbury.&nbsp; But even had he been
there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the
Melmottes.&nbsp; His advice would have been very clear.&nbsp; He
would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such
adventurers.&nbsp; But then dear Roger was old-fashioned, and knew
nothing of people as they are now.&nbsp; He lived in a world which,
though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or
good, had now passed away.&nbsp; Then her eye settled on Mr
Broune.&nbsp; She was afraid of Mr Alf.&nbsp; She had almost begun to
think that Mr Alf was too difficult of management to be of use to
her.&nbsp; But Mr Broune was softer.&nbsp; Mr Booker was serviceable
for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend.

<p>Mr Broune had been very courteous to her lately;&mdash;so much so that
on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old
goose" was going to be a goose again.&nbsp; That would be a bore; but
still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such
susceptibility would produce.&nbsp; When her guests began to leave
her, she spoke a word aside to him.&nbsp; She wanted his
advice.&nbsp; Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the
company?&nbsp; He did stay, and when all the others were gone she
asked her daughter to leave them.&nbsp; "Hetta," she said, "I have
something of business to communicate to Mr Broune."&nbsp; And so they
were left alone.

<p>"I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr Melmotte," she said
smiling.&nbsp; He had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to
the arm-chair which she occupied.&nbsp; In reply, he only shook his
head and laughed.&nbsp; "I saw how it was, and I was sorry for it;
for he certainly is a wonderful man."

<p>"I suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not
lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation.&nbsp; Though, indeed,
there is no reason why he should not say the same of me,&mdash;for if he
said little, I said less."

<p>"It didn't just come off," Lady Carbury suggested with her
sweetest smile.&nbsp; "But now I want to tell you something.&nbsp; I
think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend."

<p>"Certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers.

<p>She gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back
again,&mdash;finding that he did not relinquish it of his own
accord.&nbsp; "Stupid old goose!" she said to herself.&nbsp; "And now
to my story.&nbsp; You know my boy, Felix?"&nbsp; The editor nodded
his head.&nbsp; "He is engaged to marry that man's daughter."

<p>"Engaged to marry Miss Melmotte?"&nbsp; Then Lady Carbury nodded
her head.&nbsp; "Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the
world has ever produced.&nbsp; I thought she was to marry Lord
Nidderdale."

<p>"She has engaged herself to Felix.&nbsp; She is desperately in
love with him,&mdash;as is he with her."&nbsp; She tried to tell her story
truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based
on a true story;&mdash;but lying had become her nature.&nbsp; "Melmotte
naturally wants her to marry the lord.&nbsp; He came here to tell me
that if his daughter married Felix she would not have a penny."

<p>"Do you mean that he volunteered that as a threat?"

<p>"Just so;&mdash;and he told me that he had come here simply with the
object of saying so.&nbsp; It was more candid than civil, but we must
take it as we get it."

<p>"He would be sure to make some such threat."

<p>"Exactly.&nbsp; That is just what I feel.&nbsp; And in these days
young people are often kept from marrying simply by a father's
fantasy.&nbsp; But I must tell you something else.&nbsp; He told me
that if Felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in
the city."

<p>"That's bosh," said Broune with decision.

<p>"Do you think it must be so;&mdash;certainly?"

<p>"Yes, I do.&nbsp; Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmotte,
would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held."

<p>"He did make it."

<p>"Then he did very wrong.&nbsp; He must have spoken with the
purpose of deceiving."

<p>"You know my son is one of the Directors of that great American
Railway.&nbsp; It was not just as though the promise were made to a
young man who was altogether unconnected with him."

<p>"Sir Felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has
a title, and because Melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not
be likely to interfere with him.&nbsp; It may be that he will be able
to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if I understand the matter
rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business."

<p>"No;&mdash;he has no capital."

<p>"Dear Lady Carbury, I would place no dependence at all on such a
promise as that."

<p>"You think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?"

<p>Mr Broune hesitated before he replied to this question.&nbsp; But
it was to this question that Lady Carbury especially wished for a
reply.&nbsp; She wanted some one to support her under the
circumstances of an elopement.&nbsp; She rose from her chair, and he
rose at the same time.

<p>"Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but
prepared to take her off.&nbsp; She is quite ready to go.&nbsp; She
is devoted to him.&nbsp; Do you think he would be wrong?"

<p>"That is a question very hard to answer."

<p>"People do it every day.&nbsp; Lionel Goldsheiner ran away the
other day with Lady Julia Start, and everybody visits them."

<p>"Oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right.&nbsp; It was
the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old
Lady Catchboy, Lady Julia's mother, had arranged the elopement
herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize.&nbsp;
The young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that
fashion."

<p>"There would be nothing disgraceful."

<p>"I didn't say there would;&mdash;but nevertheless it is one of those
things a man hardly ventures to advise.&nbsp; If you ask me whether I
think that Melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance
afterwards,&mdash;I think he would."

<p>"I am so glad to hear you say that."

<p>"And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be
placed on that promise of assistance."

<p>"I quite agree with you.&nbsp; I am so much obliged to you," said
Lady Carbury, who was now determined that Felix should run off with
the girl.&nbsp; "You have been so very kind."&nbsp; Then again she
gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night.

<p>"And now," he said, "I also have something to say to you."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="31"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXI.&nbsp; Mr Broune Has Made up His Mind</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"And now I have something to say to you."&nbsp; Mr Broune as he
thus spoke to Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down
again.&nbsp; There was an air of perturbation about him which was
very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which
she thought that she understood.&nbsp; "The susceptible old goose is
going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable."&nbsp;
It was thus that she spoke to herself of the scene that she saw was
prepared for her, but she did not foresee accurately the shape in
which the susceptibility of the "old goose" would declare
itself.&nbsp; "Lady Carbury," said Mr Broune, standing up a second
time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be."

<p>"No, indeed;&mdash;and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves
the luxury of being friends.&nbsp; Nothing but age enables men and
women to know each other intimately."

<p>This speech was a great impediment to Mr Broune's progress.&nbsp;
It was evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a
time of life at which any allusion to love would be absurd.&nbsp; And
yet, as a fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age,
could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in
the park with as free an air as any man of forty, and could
afterwards work through four or five hours of the night with an easy
steadiness which nothing but sound health could produce.&nbsp; Mr
Broune, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no
reason why he should not be in love.&nbsp; "I hope we know each other
intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely.

<p>"Oh, yes;&mdash;and it is for that reason that I have come to you for
advice.&nbsp; Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask
you."

<p>"I don't see that.&nbsp; I don't quite understand that.&nbsp; But
it has nothing to do with my present purpose.&nbsp; When I said that
we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a
stupid platitude,&mdash;a foolish truism."

<p>"I do not think so," said Lady Carbury smiling.

<p>"Or would have been, only that I intended something
further."&nbsp; Mr Broune had got himself into a difficulty and
hardly knew how to get out of it.&nbsp; "I was going on to say that I
hoped we were not too old to&mdash;love."

<p>Foolish old darling!&nbsp; What did he mean by making such an ass
of himself?&nbsp; This was worse even than the kiss, as being more
troublesome and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten.&nbsp;
It may serve to explain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the
time if it be stated that she did not even at this moment suppose
that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" intended to make her
an offer of marriage.&nbsp; She knew, or thought she knew, that
middle-aged men are fond of prating about love, and getting up
sensational scenes.&nbsp; The falseness of the thing, and the injury
which may come of it, did not shock her at all.&nbsp; Had she known
that the editor professed to be in love with some lady in the next
street, she would have been quite ready to enlist the lady in the
next street among her friends that she might thus strengthen her own
influence with Mr Broune.&nbsp; For herself such make-believe of an
improper passion would be inconvenient, and therefore to be
avoided.&nbsp; But that any man, placed as Mr Broune was in the
world,&mdash;blessed with power, with a large income, with influence
throughout all the world around him, courted, f&ecirc;ted, feared and
almost worshipped,&mdash;that he should desire to share her fortunes, her
misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not
within the scope of her imagination.&nbsp; There was a homage in it,
of which she did not believe any man to be capable,&mdash;and which to her
would be the more wonderful as being paid to herself.&nbsp; She
thought so badly of men and women generally, and of Mr Broune and
herself as a man and a woman individually, that she was unable to
conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice.&nbsp; "Mr Broune," she
said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the
confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."

<p>"To annoy you, Lady Carbury!&nbsp; The phrase at any rate is
singular.&nbsp; After much thought I have determined to ask you to be
my wife.&nbsp; That I should be&mdash;annoyed, and more than annoyed by
your refusal, is a matter of course.&nbsp; That I ought to expect
such annoyance is perhaps too true.&nbsp; But you can extricate
yourself from the dilemma only too easily."

<p>The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap.&nbsp; It at
once changed all her feelings towards him.&nbsp; She did not dream of
loving him.&nbsp; She felt sure that she never could love him.&nbsp;
Had it been on the cards with her to love any man as a lover, it
would have been some handsome spendthrift who would have hung from
her neck like a nether millstone.&nbsp; This man was a friend to be
used,&mdash;to be used because he knew the world.&nbsp; And now he gave her
this clear testimony that he knew as little of the world as any other
man.&nbsp; Mr Broune of the "Daily Breakfast Table" asking her to be
his wife!&nbsp; But mixed with her other feelings there was a
tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and
almost made her weep.&nbsp; That a man,&mdash;such a man,&mdash;should offer to
take half her burdens, and to confer upon her half his
blessings!&nbsp; What an idiot!&nbsp; But what a god!&nbsp; She had
looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some
passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found
that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she
could touch.&nbsp; How wonderfully sweet!&nbsp; How infinitely small!

<p>It was necessary that she should answer him;&mdash;and to her it was
only natural that she should think what answer would best assist her
own views without reference to his.&nbsp; It did not occur to her
that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift
her out of her difficulties.&nbsp; What a benefit it would be to her
to have a father, and such a father, for Felix!&nbsp; How easy would
be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the "Morning
Breakfast Table!"&nbsp; And then it passed through her mind that
somebody had told her that the man was paid &pound;3,000 a year for his
work.&nbsp; Would not the world, or any part of it that was
desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr
Broune?&nbsp; It all passed through her brain at once during that
minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was
made to her.&nbsp; But other ideas and other feelings were present to
her also.&nbsp; Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been
the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had
engendered.&nbsp; Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been
almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected.&nbsp;
Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to
her.

<p>After that the freedom had come.&nbsp; It had been accompanied by
many hopes never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows
which had been always present to her; but still the hopes were alive
and the remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her.&nbsp; At
last the minute was over and she was bound to speak.&nbsp; "Mr
Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath.&nbsp; I
never expected anything of this kind."

<p>And now Mr Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was
free.&nbsp; "Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time
without marrying, and I have sometimes thought that it would be
better for me to go on the same way to the end.&nbsp; I have worked
so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of
love.&nbsp; And, as I have gone on, my mind has been so fully
employed, that I have hardly realized the want which nevertheless I
have felt.&nbsp; And so it has been with me till I fancied, not that
I was too old for love, but that others would think me so.&nbsp; Then
I met you.&nbsp; As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry,
you also are not as young as you once were.&nbsp; But you keep the
beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness
of a young heart.&nbsp; And I have come to love you.&nbsp; I speak
with absolute frankness, risking your anger.&nbsp; I have doubted
much before I resolved upon this.&nbsp; It is so hard to know the
nature of another person.&nbsp; But I think I understand yours;&mdash;and
if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to entrust
mine to your keeping."&nbsp; Poor Mr Broune!&nbsp; Though endowed
with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily newspaper,
he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's character
when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind!&nbsp;
And he must have surely been much blinded by love, before convincing
himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.

<p>"You do me infinite honour.&nbsp; You pay me a great compliment,"
ejaculated Lady Carbury.

<p>"Well?"

<p>"How am I to answer you at a moment?&nbsp; I expected nothing of
this.&nbsp; As God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a
dream.&nbsp; I look upon your position as almost the highest in
England,&mdash;on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved."

<p>"That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share
with you."

<p>"You tell me so;&mdash;but I can hardly yet believe it.&nbsp; And then
how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly?&nbsp; Marriage as I
have found it, Mr Broune, has not been happy.&nbsp; I have suffered
much.&nbsp; I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every
nerve,&mdash;tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment.&nbsp; At
last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness."

<p>"Has it made you happy?"

<p>"It has made me less wretched.&nbsp; And there is so much to be
considered!&nbsp; I have a son and a daughter, Mr Broune."

<p>"Your daughter I can love as my own.&nbsp; I think I prove my
devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to
encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career."

<p>"Mr Broune, I love him better,&mdash;always shall love him
better,&mdash;than anything in the world."&nbsp; This was calculated to
damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now
be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just
been expressed.&nbsp; "Mr Broune," she said, "I am now so agitated
that you had better leave me.&nbsp; And it is very late.&nbsp; The
servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain.&nbsp;
It is near two o'clock."

<p>"When may I hope for an answer?"

<p>"You shall not be kept waiting.&nbsp; I will write to you, almost
at once.&nbsp; I will write to you,&mdash;to-morrow; say the day after
to-morrow, on Thursday.&nbsp; I feel that I ought to have been
prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none
ready."&nbsp; He took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her
without another word.

<p>As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key
from the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from
his club, entered his mother's house.&nbsp; The young man looked up
into Mr Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise.&nbsp;
"Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here;
haven't you?"&nbsp; He was nearly drunk, and Mr Broune, perceiving
his condition, passed him without a word.&nbsp; Lady Carbury was
still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the
scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct,
when she heard her son tumbling up the stairs.&nbsp; It was
impossible for her not to go out to him.&nbsp; "Felix," she said,
"why do you make so much noise as you come in?"

<p>"Noish!&nbsp; I'm not making any noish.&nbsp; I think I'm very
early.&nbsp; Your people's only just gone.&nbsp; I shaw shat editor
fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown.&nbsp; He'sh great
ass'h, that fellow.&nbsp; All right, mother.&nbsp; Oh, ye'sh, I'm all
right."&nbsp; And so he tumbled up to bed, and his mother followed
him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the
table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.

<p>Mr Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all
those pangs of doubt which a man feels when he has just done that
which for days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had
better leave undone.&nbsp; That last apparition which he had
encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to
reassure him.&nbsp; What curse can be much greater than that
inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son?&nbsp; The evil, when in the
course of things it comes upon a man, has to be borne; but why should
a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a
misfortune?&nbsp; The woman, too, was devoted to the cub!&nbsp; Then
thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him.&nbsp; How would this
new life suit him?&nbsp; He must have a new house, and new ways; must
live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures.&nbsp;
And what was he to gain by it?&nbsp; Lady Carbury was a handsome
woman, and he liked her beauty.&nbsp; He regarded her too as a clever
woman; and, because she had flattered him, he had liked her
conversation.&nbsp; He had been long enough about town to have known
better,&mdash;and as he now walked along the streets, he almost felt that
he ought to have known better.&nbsp; Every now and again he warmed
himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself
that his new home would be pleasanter, though it might perhaps be
less free, than the old one.&nbsp; He tried to make the best of it;
but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance
of that drunken young baronet.

<p>Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the
thing was done.&nbsp; It did not occur to him that the lady would
refuse him.&nbsp; All his experience of the world was against such
refusal.&nbsp; Towns which consider, always render themselves.&nbsp;
Ladies who doubt always solve their doubts in the one
direction.&nbsp; Of course she would accept him;&mdash;and of course he
would stand to his guns.&nbsp; As he went to his work he endeavoured
to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom of it, there
was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his prospects.

<p>Lady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own
chamber, and there sat thinking through the greater part of the
night.&nbsp; During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as
being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a
year.&nbsp; It could not be for the good of this man that he should
marry her,&mdash;and she did in the midst of her many troubles try to
think of the man's condition.&nbsp; Although in the moments of her
triumph,&mdash;and such moments were many,&mdash;she would buoy herself up with
assurances that her Felix would become a rich man, brilliant with
wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose society would be
desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was
the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee the nature of the
catastrophe which might come.&nbsp; He would go utterly to the dogs
and would take her with him.&nbsp; And whithersoever he might go, to
what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well
enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with
him.&nbsp; Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her
to desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her
reason.&nbsp; He was the one thing in the world that overpowered
her.&nbsp; In all other matters she could scheme, and contrive, and
pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight the world
with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that
passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used.&nbsp; But
her love for her son mastered her,&mdash;and she knew it.&nbsp; As it was
so, could it be fit that she should marry another man?

<p>And then her liberty!&nbsp; Even though Felix should bring her to
utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free
woman.&nbsp; Should the worse come to the worst she thought that she
could endure a Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been
taken from her, she could live on what she earned.&nbsp; Though Felix
was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do
this or that.&nbsp; A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself
recommend itself to her.&nbsp; As to loving the man, liking his
caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,&mdash;no
romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination.&nbsp;
How would it affect Felix and her together,&mdash;and Mr Broune as
connected with her and Felix?&nbsp; If Felix should go to the dogs,
then would Mr Broune not want her.&nbsp; Should Felix go to the stars
instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the
metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr Broune.&nbsp; It was
thus that she regarded the matter.

<p>She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all
this.&nbsp; There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta
would only condescend to accept it.&nbsp; Why did not Hetta marry her
cousin Roger Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble?&nbsp;
Of course Hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should
marry; but Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her
mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by
Hetta's predispositions.

<p>But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to
marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the
better.&nbsp; On that night she did not make up her mind.&nbsp; Ever
and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him,
the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the
conviction that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be
powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind.&nbsp; But
she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed
her mind was still vacillating.&nbsp; The next morning she met Hetta
at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the
man who was perhaps about to be her husband.&nbsp; "Do you like Mr
Broune, Hetta?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;pretty well.&nbsp; I don't care very much about him.&nbsp;
What makes you ask, mamma?"

<p>"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly
kind to me as he is."

<p>"He always seems to me to like to have his own way."

<p>"Why shouldn't he like it?"

<p>"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with
people in London;&mdash;as though what he said were all said out of
surface politeness."

<p>"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of London
people?&nbsp; Why should not London people be as kind as other
people?&nbsp; I think Mr Broune is as obliging a man as any one I
know.&nbsp; But if I like anybody, you always make little of
him.&nbsp; The only person you seem to think well of is Mr Montague."

<p>"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind.&nbsp; I never mention Mr
Montague's name if I can help it,&mdash;and I should not have spoken of Mr
Broune, had you not asked me."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="32"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXII.&nbsp; Lady Monogram</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Georgiana Longestaffe had now been staying with the Melmottes for
a fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the London season had not
much improved.&nbsp; Her brother had troubled her no further, and her
family at Caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any
notice of Dolly's interference.&nbsp; Twice a week she received a
cold, dull letter from her mother,&mdash;such letters as she had been
accustomed to receive when away from home; and these she had
answered, always endeavouring to fill her sheet with some customary
description of fashionable doings, with some bit of scandal such as
she would have repeated for her mother's amusement,&mdash;and her own
delectation in the telling of it,&mdash;had there been nothing painful in
the nature of her sojourn in London.&nbsp; Of the Melmottes she
hardly spoke.&nbsp; She did not say that she was taken to the houses
in which it was her ambition to be seen.&nbsp; She would have lied
directly in saying so.&nbsp; But she did not announce her own
disappointment.&nbsp; She had chosen to come up to the Melmottes in
preference to remaining at Caversham, and she would not declare her
own failure.&nbsp; "I hope they are kind to you," Lady Pomona always
said.&nbsp; But Georgiana did not tell her mother whether the
Melmottes were kind or unkind.

<p>In truth, her "season" was a very unpleasant season.&nbsp; Her
mode of living was altogether different to anything she had already
known.&nbsp; The house in Bruton Street had never been very bright,
but the appendages of life there had been of a sort which was not
known in the gorgeous mansion in Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; It had been
full of books and little toys and those thousand trifling household
gods which are accumulated in years, and which in their accumulation
suit themselves to the taste of their owners.&nbsp; In Grosvenor
Square there were no Lares;&mdash;no toys, no books, nothing but gold and
grandeur, pomatum, powder and pride.&nbsp; The Longestaffe life had
not been an easy, natural, or intellectual life; but the Melmotte
life was hardly endurable even by a Longestaffe.&nbsp; She had,
however, come prepared to suffer much, and was endowed with
considerable power of endurance in pursuit of her own objects.&nbsp;
Having willed to come, even to the Melmottes, in preference to
remaining at Caversham, she fortified herself to suffer much.&nbsp;
Could she have ridden in the park at mid-day in desirable company,
and found herself in proper houses at midnight, she would have borne
the rest, bad as it might have been.&nbsp; But it was not so.&nbsp;
She had her horse, but could with difficulty get any proper
companion.&nbsp; She had been in the habit of riding with one of the
Primero girls,&mdash;and old Primero would accompany them, or perhaps a
brother Primero, or occasionally her own father.&nbsp; And then, when
once out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young men,&mdash;and
though there was but little in it, a walking round and round the same
bit of ground with the same companions and with the smallest attempt
at conversation, still it had been the proper thing and had satisfied
her.&nbsp; Now it was with difficulty that she could get any cavalier
such as the laws of society demand.&nbsp; Even Penelope Primero
snubbed her,&mdash;whom she, Georgiana Longestaffe, had hitherto endured
and snubbed.&nbsp; She was just allowed to join them when old Primero
rode, and was obliged even to ask for that assistance.

<p>But the nights were still worse.&nbsp; She could only go where
Madame Melmotte went, and Madame Melmotte was more prone to receive
people at home than to go out.&nbsp; And the people she did receive
were antipathetic to Miss Longestaffe.&nbsp; She did not even know
who they were, whence they came, or what was their nature.&nbsp; They
seemed to be as little akin to her as would have been the shopkeepers
in the small town near Caversham.&nbsp; She would sit through long
evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of the
vulgarity of her associates.&nbsp; Occasionally she was taken out,
and was then, probably, taken to very grand houses.&nbsp; The two
duchesses and the Marchioness of Auld Reekie received Madame
Melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were open to her.&nbsp;
And some of the most elaborate f&ecirc;tes of the season,&mdash;which
indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travelling
potentate,&mdash;were attained.&nbsp; On these occasions Miss Longestaffe
was fully aware of the struggle that was always made for invitations,
often unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph.&nbsp; Even the
bargains, conducted by the hands of Lord Alfred and his mighty
sister, were not altogether hidden from her.&nbsp; The Emperor of
China was to be in London and it was thought proper that some private
person, some untitled individual, should give the Emperor a dinner,
so that the Emperor might see how an English merchant lives.&nbsp; Mr
Melmotte was chosen on condition that he would spend &pound;10,000 on the
banquet;&mdash;and, as a part of his payment for this expenditure, was to
be admitted with his family, to a grand entertainment given to the
Emperor at Windsor Park.&nbsp; Of these good things Georgiana
Longestaffe would receive her share.&nbsp; But she went to them as a
Melmotte and not as a Longestaffe,&mdash;and when amidst these gaieties,
though she could see her old friends, she was not with them.&nbsp;
She was ever behind Madame Melmotte, till she hated the make of that
lady's garments and the shape of that lady's back.

<p>She had told both her father and mother very plainly that it
behoved her to be in London at this time of the year that she
might&mdash;look for a husband.&nbsp; She had not hesitated in declaring
her purpose; and that purpose, together with the means of carrying it
out, had not appeared to them to be unreasonable.&nbsp; She wanted to
be settled in life.&nbsp; She had meant, when she first started on
her career, to have a lord;&mdash;but lords are scarce.&nbsp; She was
herself not very highly born, not very highly gifted, not very
lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune.&nbsp; She had long
made up her mind that she could do without a lord, but that she must
get a commoner of the proper sort.&nbsp; He must be a man with a
place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually to
London.&nbsp; He must be a gentleman,&mdash;and, probably, in
parliament.&nbsp; And above all things he must be in the right
set.&nbsp; She would rather go on for ever struggling than take some
country Whitstable as her sister was about to do.&nbsp; But now the
men of the right sort never came near her.&nbsp; The one object for
which she had subjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have
vanished altogether in the distance.&nbsp; When by chance she danced
or exchanged a few words with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs whom
she used to know, they spoke to her with a want of respect which she
felt and tasted but could hardly analyse.&nbsp; Even Miles Grendall,
who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted to patronize her in
a manner that bewildered her.&nbsp; All this nearly broke her heart.

<p>And then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which
made her aware that, in the teeth of all Mr Melmotte's social
successes, a general opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was
rather gaining ground than otherwise.&nbsp; "Your host is a wonderful
fellow, by George!" said Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; "No one seems to know
which way he'll turn up at last."&nbsp; "There's nothing like being a
robber, if you can only rob enough," said Lord Grasslough,&mdash;not
exactly naming Melmotte, but very clearly alluding to him.&nbsp;
There was a vacancy for a member of parliament at Westminster, and
Melmotte was about to come forward as a candidate.&nbsp; "If he can
manage that I think he'll pull through," she heard one man say.&nbsp;
"If money'll do it, it will be done," said another.&nbsp; She could
understand it all.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was admitted into society,
because of some enormous power which was supposed to lie in his
hands; but even by those who thus admitted him he was regarded as a
thief and a scoundrel.&nbsp; This was the man whose house had been
selected by her father in order that she might make her search for a
husband from beneath his wing!

<p>In her agony she wrote to her old friend Julia Triplex, now the
wife of Sir Damask Monogram.&nbsp; She had been really intimate with
Julia Triplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had
been achieved.&nbsp; Julia had been without fortune, but very
pretty.&nbsp; Sir Damask was a man of great wealth, whose father had
been a contractor.&nbsp; But Sir Damask himself was a sportsman,
keeping many horses on which other men often rode, a yacht in which
other men sunned themselves, a deer forest, a moor, a large machinery
for making pheasants.&nbsp; He shot pigeons at Hurlingham, drove
four-in-hand in the park, had a box at every race-course, and was the
most good-natured fellow known.&nbsp; He had really conquered the
world, had got over the difficulty of being the grandson of a
butcher, and was now as good as though the Monograms had gone to the
crusades.&nbsp; Julia Triplex was equal to her position, and made the
very most of it.&nbsp; She dispensed champagne and smiles, and made
everybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with her
husband.&nbsp; Lady Monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and
in that position had been, of course, invaluable to her old
friend.&nbsp; We must give her her due and say that she had been
fairly true to friendship while Georgiana&mdash;behaved herself.&nbsp; She
thought that Georgiana in going to the Melmottes had not behaved
herself, and therefore she had determined to drop Georgiana.&nbsp;
"Heartless, false, purse-proud creature," Georgiana said to herself
as she wrote the following letter in humiliating agony.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR LADY MONOGRAM,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I think you hardly understand my
position.&nbsp; Of course you have cut me.&nbsp; Haven't you?&nbsp;
And of course I must feel it very much.&nbsp; You did not use to be
ill-natured, and I hardly think you can have become so now when you
have everything pleasant around you.&nbsp; I do not think that I have
done anything that should make an old friend treat me in this way,
and therefore I write to ask you to let me see you.&nbsp; Of course
it is because I am staying here.&nbsp; You know me well enough to be
sure that it can't be my own choice.&nbsp; Papa arranged it
all.&nbsp; If there is anything against these people, I suppose papa
does not know it.&nbsp; Of course they are not nice.&nbsp; Of course
they are not like anything that I have been used to.&nbsp; But when
papa told me that the house in Bruton Street was to be shut up and
that I was to come here, of course I did as I was bid.&nbsp; I don't
think an old friend like you, whom I have always liked more than
anybody else, ought to cut me for it.&nbsp; It's not about the
parties, but about yourself that I mind.&nbsp; I don't ask you to
come here, but if you will see me I can have the carriage and will go
to you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours, as ever,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>It was a troublesome letter to get written.&nbsp; Lady Monogram
was her junior in age and had once been lower than herself in social
position.&nbsp; In the early days of their friendship she had
sometimes domineered over Julia Triplex, and had been entreated by
Julia, in reference to balls here and routes there.&nbsp; The great
Monogram marriage had been accomplished very suddenly, and had taken
place,&mdash;exalting Julia very high,&mdash;just as Georgiana was beginning to
allow her aspirations to descend.&nbsp; It was in that very season
that she moved her castle in the air from the Upper to the Lower
House.&nbsp; And now she was absolutely begging for notice, and
praying that she might not be cut!&nbsp; She sent her letter by post
and on the following day received a reply, which was left by a
footman.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR GEORGIANA,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of course I shall be delighted to see
you.&nbsp; I don't know what you mean by cutting.&nbsp; I never cut
anybody.&nbsp; We happen to have got into different sets, but that is
not my fault.&nbsp; Sir Damask won't let me call on the
Melmottes.&nbsp; I can't help that.&nbsp; You wouldn't have me go
where he tells me not.&nbsp; I don't know anything about them myself,
except that I did go to their ball.&nbsp; But everybody knows that's
different.&nbsp; I shall be at home all to-morrow till three,&mdash;that
is to-day I mean, for I'm writing after coming home from Lady
Killarney's ball; but if you wish to see me alone you had better come
before lunch.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours affectionately,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;J. MONOGRAM.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Georgiana condescended to borrow the carriage and reached her
friend's house a little after noon.&nbsp; The two ladies kissed each
other when they met&mdash;of course, and then Miss Longestaffe at once
began.&nbsp; "Julia, I did think that you would at any rate have
asked me to your second ball."

<p>"Of course you would have been asked if you had been up in Bruton
Street.&nbsp; You know that as well as I do.&nbsp; It would have been
a matter of course."

<p>"What difference does a house make?"

<p>"But the people in a house make a great deal of difference, my
dear.&nbsp; I don't want to quarrel with you, my dear; but I can't
know the Melmottes."

<p>"Who asks you?"

<p>"You are with them."

<p>"Do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house
without asking everybody that lives with that person?&nbsp; It's done
every day."

<p>"Somebody must have brought you."

<p>"I would have come with the Primeros, Julia."

<p>"I couldn't do it.&nbsp; I asked Damask and he wouldn't have
it.&nbsp; When that great affair was going on in February, we didn't
know much about the people.&nbsp; I was told that everybody was going
and therefore I got Sir Damask to let me go.&nbsp; He says now that
he won't let me know them; and after having been at their house I
can't ask you out of it, without asking them too."

<p>"I don't see it at all, Julia."

<p>"I'm very sorry, my dear, but I can't go against my husband."

<p>"Everybody goes to their house," said Georgiana, pleading her
cause to the best of her ability.&nbsp; "The Duchess of Stevenage has
dined in Grosvenor Square since I have been there."

<p>"We all know what that means," replied Lady Monogram.

<p>"And people are giving their eyes to be asked to the dinner party
which he is to give to the Emperor in July;&mdash;and even to the
reception afterwards."

<p>"To hear you talk, Georgiana, one would think that you didn't
understand anything," said Lady Monogram.&nbsp; "People are going to
see the Emperor, not to see the Melmottes.&nbsp; I dare say we might
have gone,&mdash;only I suppose we shan't now because of this row."

<p>"I don't know what you mean by a row, Julia."

<p>"Well;&mdash;it is a row, and I hate rows.&nbsp; Going there when the
Emperor of China is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than
going to the play.&nbsp; Somebody chooses to get all London into his
house, and all London chooses to go.&nbsp; But it isn't understood
that that means acquaintance.&nbsp; I should meet Madame Melmotte in
the park afterwards and not think of bowing to her."

<p>"I should call that rude."

<p>"Very well.&nbsp; Then we differ.&nbsp; But really it does seem to
me that you ought to understand these things as well as
anybody.&nbsp; I don't find any fault with you for going to the
Melmottes,&mdash;though I was very sorry to hear it; but when you have
done it, I don't think you should complain of people because they
won't have the Melmottes crammed down their throats."

<p>"Nobody has wanted it," said Georgiana sobbing.&nbsp; At this
moment the door was opened, and Sir Damask came in.&nbsp; "I'm
talking to your wife about the Melmottes," she continued, determined
to take the bull by the horns.&nbsp; "I'm staying there, and&mdash;I think
it&mdash;unkind that Julia&mdash;hasn't been&mdash;to see me.&nbsp; That's all."

<p>"How'd you do, Miss Longestaffe?&nbsp; She doesn't know
them."&nbsp; And Sir Damask, folding his hands together, raising his
eyebrows, and standing on the rug, looked as though he had solved the
whole difficulty.

<p>"She knows me, Sir Damask."

<p>"Oh yes;&mdash;she knows you.&nbsp; That's a matter of course.&nbsp;
We're delighted to see you, Miss Longestaffe&mdash;I am, always.&nbsp;
Wish we could have had you at Ascot.&nbsp; But&mdash;."&nbsp; Then he
looked as though he had again explained everything.

<p>"I've told her that you don't want me to go to the Melmottes,"
said Lady Monogram.

<p>"Well, no;&mdash;not just to go there.&nbsp; Stay and have lunch, Miss
Longestaffe."

<p>"No, thank you."

<p>"Now you're here, you'd better," said Lady Monogram.

<p>"No, thank you.&nbsp; I'm sorry that I have not been able to make
you understand me.&nbsp; I could not allow our very long friendship
to be dropped without a word."

<p>"Don't say&mdash;dropped," exclaimed the baronet.

<p>"I do say dropped, Sir Damask.&nbsp; I thought we should have
understood each other;&mdash;your wife and I.&nbsp; But we haven't.&nbsp;
Wherever she might have gone, I should have made it my business to
see her; but she feels differently.&nbsp; Good-bye."

<p>"Good-bye, my dear.&nbsp; If you will quarrel, it isn't my
doing."&nbsp; Then Sir Damask led Miss Longestaffe out, and put her
into Madame Melmotte's carriage.&nbsp; "It's the most absurd thing I
ever knew in my life," said the wife as soon as her husband had
returned to her.&nbsp; "She hasn't been able to bear to remain down
in the country for one season, when all the world knows that her
father can't afford to have a house for them in town.&nbsp; Then she
condescends to come and stay with these abominations and pretends to
feel surprised that her old friends don't run after her.&nbsp; She is
old enough to have known better."

<p>"I suppose she likes parties," said Sir Damask.

<p>"Likes parties!&nbsp; She'd like to get somebody to take
her.&nbsp; It's twelve years now since Georgiana Longestaffe came
out.&nbsp; I remember being told of the time when I was first entered
myself.&nbsp; Yes, my dear, you know all about it, I dare say.&nbsp;
And there she is still.&nbsp; I can feel for her, and do feel for
her.&nbsp; But if she will let herself down in that way she can't
expect not to be dropped.&nbsp; You remember the woman;&mdash;don't you?"

<p>"What woman?"

<p>"Madame Melmotte?"

<p>"Never saw her in my life."

<p>"Oh yes, you did.&nbsp; You took me there that night when
Prince&mdash;danced with the girl.&nbsp; Don't you remember the blowsy fat
woman at the top of the stairs;&mdash;a regular horror?"

<p>"Didn't look at her.&nbsp; I was only thinking what a lot of money
it all cost."

<p>"I remember her, and if Georgiana Longestaffe thinks I'm going
there to make an acquaintance with Madame Melmotte she is very much
mistaken.&nbsp; And if she thinks that that is the way to get
married, I think she is mistaken again."&nbsp; Nothing perhaps is so
efficacious in preventing men from marrying as the tone in which
married women speak of the struggles made in that direction by their
unmarried friends.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="33"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIII.&nbsp; John Crumb</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Sir Felix Carbury made an appointment for meeting Ruby Ruggles a
second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to Sheep's
Acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made
without any intention of keeping it.&nbsp; But Ruby was there, and
remained hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather
returned from Harlestone market.&nbsp; An early hour had been named;
but hours may be mistaken, and Ruby had thought that a fine
gentleman, such as was her lover, used to live among fine people up
in London, might well mistake the afternoon for the morning.&nbsp; If
he would come at all she could easily forgive such a mistake.&nbsp;
But he did not come, and late in the afternoon she was obliged to
obey her grandfather's summons as he called her into the house.

<p>After that for three weeks she heard nothing of her London lover,
but she was always thinking of him;&mdash;and though she could not
altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little
as possible.&nbsp; One afternoon her grandfather returned from Bungay
and told her that her country lover was coming to see her.&nbsp;
"John Crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man.&nbsp; "See
and have a bit o' supper ready for him."

<p>"John Crumb coming here, grandfather?&nbsp; He's welcome to stay
away then, for me."

<p>"That be dommed."&nbsp; The old man thrust his old hat on to his
head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the
kitchen-fire.&nbsp; Whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the
custom was well understood by Ruby.&nbsp; "Why not welcome, and he
all one as your husband?&nbsp; Look ye here, Ruby, I'm going to have
an eend o' this.&nbsp; John Crumb is to marry you next month, and the
banns is to be said."

<p>"The parson may say what he pleases, grandfather.&nbsp; I can't
stop his saying of 'em.&nbsp; It isn't likely I shall try,
neither.&nbsp; But no parson among 'em all can marry me without I'm
willing."

<p>"And why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?"

<p>"You've been a'drinking, grandfather."

<p>He turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her
head;&mdash;nothing to Ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which
she was well accustomed.&nbsp; She picked it up, and returned it to
him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate
him.&nbsp; "Look ye here, Ruby," he said, "out o' this place you
go.&nbsp; If you go as John Crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd
pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all Bungay."

<p>"Who cares for all Bungay,&mdash;a set of beery chaps as knows nothing
but swilling and smoking;&mdash;and John Crumb the main of 'em all?&nbsp;
There never was a chap for beer like John Crumb."

<p>"Never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life."&nbsp; And the
old farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down
upon the table.

<p>"It ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he
swills.&nbsp; You can't tell me, grandfather, about John Crumb, I
knows him."

<p>"Didn't ye say as how ye'd have him?&nbsp; Didn't ye give him a
promise?"

<p>"If I did, I ain't the first girl as has gone back of her
word,&mdash;and I shan't be the last."

<p>"You means you won't have him?"

<p>"That's about it, grandfather."

<p>"Then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty
sharp,&mdash;for you won't have me."

<p>"There ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather."

<p>"Very well.&nbsp; He's a coming here to-night, and you may settle
it along wi' him.&nbsp; Out o' this ye shall go.&nbsp; I know of your
doings."

<p>"What doings!&nbsp; You don't know of no doings.&nbsp; There ain't
no doings.&nbsp; You don't know nothing ag'in me."

<p>"He's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him,
well and good.&nbsp; There's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have
the dinner and dance and all Bungay.&nbsp; He ain't a going to be put
off no longer;&mdash;he ain't."

<p>"Whoever wanted him to be put on?&nbsp; Let him go his own gait."

<p>"If you can't make it up wi' him&mdash;"&nbsp;

<p>"Well, grandfather, I shan't anyways."

<p>"Let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you?&nbsp; There's five
hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in Suffolk or Norfolk
paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter
as that,&mdash;let alone only a granddarter.&nbsp; You never thinks o'
that;&mdash;you don't.&nbsp; If you don't like to take it,&mdash;leave
it.&nbsp; But you'll leave Sheep's Acre too."

<p>"Bother Sheep's Acre.&nbsp; Who wants to stop at Sheep's
Acre?&nbsp; It's the stoopidest place in all England."

<p>"Then find another.&nbsp; Then find another.&nbsp; That's all
aboot it.&nbsp; John Crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper.&nbsp;
You tell him your own mind.&nbsp; I'm dommed if I trouble aboot
it.&nbsp; On'y you don't stay here.&nbsp; Sheep's Acre ain't good
enough for you, and you'd best find another home.&nbsp; Stoopid, is
it?&nbsp; You'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor Sheep's
Acre, afore you've done."

<p>In regard to the hospitality promised to Mr Crumb, Miss Ruggles
went about her work with sufficient alacrity.&nbsp; She was quite
willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did
understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she
owed her service to her grandfather.&nbsp; She therefore went to work
herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in
keeping her grandfather's house.&nbsp; But as she did this, she
determined that she would make John Crumb understand that she would
never be his wife.&nbsp; Upon that she was now fully resolved.&nbsp;
As she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the
slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was
to be boiled for John Crumb, she made mental comparisons between him
and Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; She could see, as though present to her
at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff
with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark
well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was
ever longing to twine her fingers among them.&nbsp; And she
remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the mealman, with
his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge
white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of
which he was always extracting meal and grit;&mdash;and then also she
remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect
eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her London lover.&nbsp; Surely a
lease of Paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would
be well purchased at the price of a life with the other!&nbsp; "It's
no good going against love," she said to herself, "and I won't
try.&nbsp; He shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and
then go home.&nbsp; He cares more for his supper than he do for
me."&nbsp; And then, with this final resolution firmly made, she
popped the fowl into the pot.&nbsp; Her grandfather wanted her to
leave Sheep's Acre.&nbsp; Very well.&nbsp; She had a little money of
her own, and would take herself off to London.&nbsp; She knew what
people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales.&nbsp;
She would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in
her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of Sheep's
Acre.

<p>Seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour John
Crumb knocked at the back door of Sheep's Acre farm-house.&nbsp; Nor
did he come alone.&nbsp; He was accompanied by his friend Joe Mixet,
the baker of Bungay, who, as all Bungay knew, was to be his best man
at his marriage.&nbsp; John Crumb's character was not without any
fine attributes.&nbsp; He could earn money,&mdash;and having earned it
could spend and keep it in fair proportion.&nbsp; He was afraid of no
work, and,&mdash;to give him his due,&mdash;was afraid of no man.&nbsp; He was
honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did.&nbsp; And after his
fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women.&nbsp; He was willing to
thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most
dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to
him.&nbsp; But Ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was
slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all
forms of expression.&nbsp; He knew good meal from bad as well as any
man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a
fair profit at the selling.&nbsp; He knew the value of a clear
conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that
honesty is in truth the best policy.&nbsp; Joe Mixet, who was dapper
of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying
John Crumb for a fool would lose his money.&nbsp; Joe Mixet was
probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of
worldly sagacity, in the way in which Crumb had allowed his proposed
marriage with Ruby Ruggles to become a source of gossip to all
Bungay.&nbsp; His love was now an old affair; and, though he never
talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that.&nbsp; He was
proud of Ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as
her acknowledged lover,&mdash;and he did not hide his light under a
bushel.&nbsp; Perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in
prejudicing Ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once
accepted.&nbsp; Now when he came to settle the day,&mdash;having heard
more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with Ruby,&mdash;he
brought his friend Mixet with him as though to be present at his
triumph.&nbsp; "If here isn't Joe Mixet," said Ruby to herself.&nbsp;
"Was there ever such a stoopid as John Crumb?&nbsp; There's no end to
his being stoopid."

<p>The old man had slept off his anger and his beer while Ruby had
been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his
guests.&nbsp; "What, Joe Mixet; is that thou?&nbsp; Thou'rt
welcome.&nbsp; Come in, man.&nbsp; Well, John, how is it wi'
you?&nbsp; Ruby's stewing o' something for us to eat a bit.&nbsp;
Don't e' smell it?"&mdash;John Crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed
and grinned.

<p>"John didn't like going home in the dark like," said the baker,
with his little joke.&nbsp; "So I just come along to drive away the
bogies."

<p>"The more the merrier;&mdash;the more the merrier.&nbsp; Ruby'll have
enough for the two o' you, I'll go bail.&nbsp; So John Crumb's afraid
of bogies;&mdash;is he?&nbsp; The more need he to have some 'un in his
house to scart 'em away."

<p>The lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he
was instigated to ask a question.&nbsp; "Where be she, Muster
Ruggles?"&nbsp; They were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in
which the old man and his granddaughter always lived; while Ruby was
at work in the back kitchen.&nbsp; As John Crumb asked this question
she could be heard distinctly among the pots and the plates.&nbsp;
She now came out, and wiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with
the two young men.&nbsp; She had enveloped herself in a big household
apron when the cooking was in hand, and had not cared to take it off
for the greeting of this lover.&nbsp; "Grandfather said as how you
was a coming out for your supper, so I've been a seeing to it.&nbsp;
You'll excuse the apron, Mr Mixet."

<p>"You couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try ever so.&nbsp;
My mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young
men.&nbsp; What do you say, John?"

<p>"I loiks to see her loik o' that," said John rubbing his hands
down the back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his
eyes down to a level with those of his sweetheart.

<p>"It looks homely; don't it John?" said Mixet.

<p>"Bother!" said Ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the
other kitchen.&nbsp; John Crumb turned round also, and grinned at his
friend, and then grinned at the old man.

<p>"You've got it all afore you," said the farmer,&mdash;leaving the lover
to draw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition.

<p>"And I don't care how soon I ha'e it in hond;&mdash;that I don't," said
John.

<p>"That's the chat," said Joe Mixet.&nbsp; "There ain't nothing
wanting in his house;&mdash;is there, John?&nbsp; It's all there,&mdash;cradle,
caudle-cup, and the rest of it.&nbsp; A young woman going to John
knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie
down upon when she goes to bed."&nbsp; This he declared in a loud
voice for the benefit of Ruby in the back kitchen.

<p>"That she do," said John, grinning again.&nbsp; "There's a hun'erd
and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind
her."

<p>After this there was no more conversation till Ruby reappeared
with the boiled fowl, and without her apron.&nbsp; She was followed
by the girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of
cabbage.&nbsp; Then the old man got up slowly and opening some
private little door of which he kept the key in his breeches pocket,
drew a jug of ale and placed it on the table.&nbsp; And from a
cupboard of which he also kept the key, he brought out a bottle of
gin.&nbsp; Everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round
the table, John Crumb looking at his chair again and again before he
ventured to occupy it.&nbsp; "If you'll sit yourself down, I'll give
you a bit of something to eat," said Ruby at last.&nbsp; Then he sank
at once into has chair.&nbsp; Ruby cut up the fowl standing, and
dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself
at the table,&mdash;and apparently not expected to do so, for no one
invited her.&nbsp; "Is it to be spirits or ale, Mr Crumb?" she said,
when the other two men had helped themselves.&nbsp; He turned round
and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an
Amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed
his head at the beer jug.&nbsp; Then she filled it to the brim,
frothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed.&nbsp;
He raised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though
to a vat.&nbsp; Then she filled it again.&nbsp; He had been her
lover, and she would be as kind to him as she knew how,&mdash;short of
love.

<p>There was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and
another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was
said.&nbsp; John Crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl,
sedulously picking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then
finished the second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment
of cabbage.&nbsp; He did not ask for more beer, but took it as often
as Ruby replenished his glass.&nbsp; When the eating was done, Ruby
retired into the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some
bone or merry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence
reserved, sharing her spoils however with the other maiden.&nbsp;
This she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the
dishes.&nbsp; The men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while
Ruby went through her domestic duties.&nbsp; So matters went on for
half an hour; during which Ruby escaped by the back door, went round
into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand
resolution of going to bed.&nbsp; She began her operations in fear
and trembling, not being sure that her grandfather would bring the
man upstairs to her.&nbsp; As she thought of this she stayed her
hand, and looked to the door.&nbsp; She knew well that there was no
bolt there.&nbsp; It would be terrible to her to be invaded by John
Crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer.&nbsp; And, she declared
to herself, that should he come he would be sure to bring Joe Mixet
with him to speak his mind for him.&nbsp; So she paused and listened.

<p>When they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his
granddaughter, but called of course in vain.&nbsp; "Where the
mischief is the jade gone?" he said, slowly making his way into the
back kitchen.&nbsp; The maid, as soon as she heard her master moving,
escaped into the yard and made no response, while the old man stood
bawling at the back door.&nbsp; "The devil's in them.&nbsp; They're
off some gates," he said aloud.&nbsp; "She'll make the place hot for
her, if she goes on this way."&nbsp; Then he returned to the two
young men.&nbsp; "She's playing off her games somewheres," he
said.&nbsp; "Take a glass of sperrits and water, Mr Crumb, and I'll
see after her."

<p>"I'll just take a drop of y'ell," said John Crumb, apparently
quite unmoved by the absence of his sweetheart.

<p>It was sad work for the old man.&nbsp; He went down the yard and
into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very
loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost;
but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to
him.&nbsp; He was not bound to give the girl a home at all.&nbsp; She
was not his own child.&nbsp; And he had offered her &pound;500!&nbsp; "Domm
her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house.&nbsp; After
much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen
in which the two men were sitting, leading Ruby in his hand.&nbsp;
She was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself,
and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to
appear in public.&nbsp; She had acknowledged to herself that she had
better go down and tell John Crumb the truth.&nbsp; For she was still
determined that she would never be John Crumb's wife.&nbsp; "You can
answer him as well as I, grandfather," she had said.&nbsp; Then the
farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot.&nbsp; "Oh,
if it comes to that," said Ruby, "I'm not afraid of John Crumb, nor
yet of nobody else.&nbsp; Only I didn't think you'd go to strike me,
grandfather."&nbsp; "I'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest
on this gate," he had said.&nbsp; But she had consented to come down,
and they entered the room together.

<p>"We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss," said Mr Mixet.

<p>"It ain't that at all, Mr Mixet.&nbsp; If grandfather chooses to
have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it.&nbsp; I wish he'd
have a few friends a deal oftener than he do.&nbsp; I likes nothing
better than to do for 'em;&mdash;only when I've done for 'em and they're
smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave
'em to 'emselves."

<p>"But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby."

<p>"I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr Mixet.&nbsp; If you and
Mr Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper&mdash;"

<p>"Which we ain't," said John Crumb very loudly;&mdash;"nor yet for
beer;&mdash;not by no means."

<p>"We've come for the smiles of beauty," said Joe Mixet.&nbsp; Ruby
chucked up her head.&nbsp; "Mr Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow
that!&nbsp; There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there
was it isn't nothing to you."

<p>"Except in the way of friendship," said Mixet.

<p>"I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be," said Mr Ruggles,
who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head
forward.&nbsp; "I won't put up with it no more."

<p>"Who wants you to put up with it?" said Ruby.&nbsp; "Who wants 'em
to come here with their trash?&nbsp; Who brought 'em to-night?&nbsp; I
don't know what business Mr Mixet has interfering along o' me.&nbsp;
I never interfere along o' him."

<p>"John Crumb, have you anything to say?" asked the old man.

<p>Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his
full height.&nbsp; "I hove," said he, swinging his head to one side.

<p>"Then say it."

<p>"I will," said he.&nbsp; He was still standing bolt upright with
his hands down by his side.&nbsp; Then he stretched out his left to
his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as
far as that would strengthen him.&nbsp; Having done this he slowly
deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand.

<p>"Now speak your mind, like a man," said Mixet.

<p>"I intends it," said John.&nbsp; But he still stood dumb, looking
down upon old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up
at him.&nbsp; Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table
and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place.

<p>"You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;&mdash;haven't
you, John?" suggested Mixet.

<p>"I hove."

<p>"And you mean to be as good as your word?"

<p>"I do."

<p>"And she has promised to have you?"

<p>"She hove."

<p>"More nor once or twice?"&nbsp; To this proposition Crumb found it
only necessary to bob his head.&nbsp; "You're ready?&mdash;and willing?"

<p>"I am."

<p>"You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?"

<p>"There ain't no delay 'bout me;&mdash;never was."

<p>"Everything is ready in your own house?"

<p>"They is."

<p>"And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?"

<p>"I sholl."

<p>"That's about it, I think," said Joe Mixet, turning to the
grandfather.&nbsp; "I don't think there was ever anything much more
straightforward than that.&nbsp; You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows
all about John Crumb.&nbsp; John Crumb didn't come to Bungay
yesterday nor yet the day before.&nbsp; There's been a talk of five
hundred pounds, Mr Ruggles."&nbsp; Mr Ruggles made a slight gesture
of assent with his head.&nbsp; "Five hundred pounds is very
comfortable; and added to what John has will make things that snug
that things never was snugger.&nbsp; But John Crumb isn't after Miss
Ruby along of her fortune."

<p>"Nohows," said the lover, shaking his head and still standing
upright with his hands by his side.

<p>"Not he;&mdash;it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it
of him.&nbsp; John has a heart in his buzsom."

<p>"I has," said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.

<p>"And feelings as a man.&nbsp; It's true love as has brought John
Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;&mdash;love of that young lady, if
she'll let me make so free.&nbsp; He's a proposed to her, and she's a
haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married.&nbsp;
That's what John Crumb has to say."

<p>"That's what I has to say," repeated John Crumb, "and I means it."

<p>"And now, miss," continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby,
"you've heard what John has to say."

<p>"I've heard you, Mr Mixet, and I've heard quite enough."

<p>"You can't have anything to say against it, Miss; can you?&nbsp;
There's your grandfather as is willing, and the-money as one may say
counted out,&mdash;and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that
there isn't a ha'porth to do.&nbsp; All we want is for you to name
the day."

<p>"Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agen it," said John Crumb,
slapping his thigh.

<p>"I won't say to-morrow, Mr Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow,
nor yet no day at all.&nbsp; I'm not going to have you.&nbsp; I've
told you as much before."

<p>"That was only in fun, loike."

<p>"Then now I tell you in earnest.&nbsp; There's some folk wants
such a deal of telling."

<p>"You don't mean,&mdash;never?"

<p>"I do mean never, Mr Crumb."

<p>"Didn't you say as you would, Ruby?&nbsp; Didn't you say so as
plain as the nose on my face?"&nbsp; John as he asked these questions
could hardly refrain from tears.

<p>"Young women is allowed to change their minds," said Ruby.

<p>"Brute!" exclaimed old Ruggles.&nbsp; "Pig!&nbsp; Jade!&nbsp; I'll
tell you what, John.&nbsp; She'll go out o' this into the
streets;&mdash;that's what she wull.&nbsp; I won't keep her here, no
longer;&mdash;nasty, ungrateful, lying slut."

<p>"She ain't that;&mdash;she ain't that," said John.&nbsp; "She ain't
that at all.&nbsp; She's no slut.&nbsp; I won't hear her called
so;&mdash;not by her grandfather.&nbsp; But, oh, she has a mind to put me
so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself"

<p>"Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that
way," said the baker.

<p>"If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you,
Mr Mixet," said Ruby.&nbsp; "If you hadn't come here at all things
might have been different."

<p>"Hark at that now," said John, looking at his friend almost with
indignation.

<p>Mr Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the
absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement
were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after
this.&nbsp; He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen
into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round
by the pigsty wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay.&nbsp;
As soon as Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the
corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out
his right hand as a feeler.&nbsp; "He's aff now, Ruby," said John.

<p>"And you'd better be aff after him," said the cruel girl.

<p>"And when'll I come back again?"

<p>"Never.&nbsp; It ain't no use.&nbsp; What's the good of more
words, Mr Crumb?"

<p>"Domm her; domm her," said old Ruggles.&nbsp; "I'll even it to
her.&nbsp; She'll have to be out on the roads this night."

<p>"She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it,"
said John, "and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come
nigh her till she sends for me."

<p>"I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr Crumb."&nbsp; Old
Ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his
hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance.

<p>"And now if you please, Mr Crumb, I'll go upstairs to my own
room."

<p>"You don't go up to any room here, you jade you."&nbsp; The old
man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at
her.&nbsp; And he would have struck her with his stick but that he
was stopped by John Crumb.

<p>"Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr Ruggles."

<p>"Domm her, John; she breaks my heart."&nbsp; While her lover held
her grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside,
again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her
grandfather.&nbsp; "Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to
bear;&mdash;ain't it, Mr Crumb?" said the grandfather appealing to the
young man.

<p>"It's the ways on 'em, Mr Ruggles."

<p>"Ways on 'em!&nbsp; A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the
ways on her.&nbsp; She's been and seen some young buck."

<p>Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks
of anger flashed from his eyes.&nbsp; "You ain't a meaning of it,
master?"

<p>"I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,&mdash;him as they
call the baronite."

<p>"Been along wi' Ruby?"&nbsp; The old man nodded at him.&nbsp; "By
the mortials I'll baronite him;&mdash;I wull," said John, seizing his hat
and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="34"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIV.&nbsp; Ruby Ruggles Obeys Her Grandfather</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The next day there was a great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm,
which communicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and
even affected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor.&nbsp; Ruby
Ruggles had gone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old
farmer became aware of the fact.&nbsp; She had started early, at
about seven in the morning; but Ruggles himself had been out long
before that, and had not condescended to ask for her when he returned
to the house for his breakfast.&nbsp; There had been a bad scene up
in the bedroom overnight, after John Crumb had left the farm.&nbsp;
The old man in his anger had tried to expel the girl; but she had
hung on to the bed-post and would not go; and he had been frightened,
when the maid came up crying and screaming murder.&nbsp; "You'll be
out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name's Dannel Ruggles," said the
farmer panting for breath.&nbsp; But for the gin which he had taken
he would hardly have struck her;&mdash;but he had struck her, and pulled
her by the hair, and knocked her about;&mdash;and in the morning she took
him at his word and was away.&nbsp; About twelve he heard from the
servant girl that she had gone.&nbsp; She had packed a box and had
started up the road carrying the box herself.&nbsp; "Grandfather says
I'm to go, and I'm gone," she had said to the girl.&nbsp; At the
first cottage she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and to
Beccles she had walked.&nbsp; For an hour or two Ruggles sat, quiet,
within the house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased
with herself,&mdash;that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth
he would trouble himself no more about her.&nbsp; But by degrees
there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear,
with perhaps some mixture of love, instigating him to make search for
her.&nbsp; She had been the same to him as a child, and what would
people say of him if he allowed her to depart from him after this
fashion?&nbsp; Then he remembered his violence the night before, and
the fact that the servant girl had heard if she had not seen
it.&nbsp; He could not drop his responsibility in regard to Ruby,
even if he would.&nbsp; So, as a first step, he sent in a message to
John Crumb, at Bungay, to tell him that Ruby Ruggles had gone off
with a box to Beccles.&nbsp; John Crumb went open-mouthed with the
news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knew that Ruby Ruggles had run
away.

<p>After sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking,
and at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord.&nbsp;
He held a part of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury
would tell him what he ought to do.&nbsp; A great trouble had come
upon him.&nbsp; He would fain have been quiet, but his conscience and
his heart and his terrors all were at work together,&mdash;and he found
that he could not eat his dinner.&nbsp; So he had out his cart and
horse and drove himself off to Carbury Hall.

<p>It was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated
on the terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham,
the priest.&nbsp; The old man was shown at once round into the
garden, and was not long in telling his story.&nbsp; There had been
words between him and his granddaughter about her lover.&nbsp; Her
lover had been accepted and had come to the farm to claim his
bride.&nbsp; Ruby had behaved very badly.&nbsp; The old man made the
most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little as possible of
his own violence.&nbsp; But he did explain that there had been
threats used when Ruby refused to take the man, and that Ruby had,
this day, taken herself off.

<p>"I always thought it was settled that they were to be man and
wife," said Roger.

<p>"It was settled, squoire;&mdash;and he war to have five hun'erd pound
down;&mdash;money as I'd saved myself.&nbsp; Drat the jade."

<p>"Didn't she like him, Daniel?"

<p>"She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else."&nbsp;
Then old Daniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the
owner of a secret.&nbsp; The squire got up and walked round the
garden with him,&mdash;and then the secret was told.&nbsp; The farmer was
of opinion that there was something between the girl and Sir
Felix.&nbsp; Sir Felix some weeks since had been seen near the farm
and on the same occasion Ruby had been observed at some little
distance from the house with her best clothes on.

<p>"He's been so little here, Daniel," said the squire.

<p>"It goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does," said the
farmer.&nbsp; "Girls like Ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one
such as that, though they'll fall-lall with a man like John Crumb for
years."

<p>"I suppose she's gone to London."

<p>"Don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;&mdash;only she have
gone some'eres.&nbsp; May be it's Lowestoft.&nbsp; There's lots of
quality at Lowestoft a'washing theyselves in the sea."

<p>Then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be
cognizant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on
such an occasion as this.&nbsp; "If she was one of our people," said
Father Barham, "we should have her back quick enough."

<p>"Would ye now?" said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and
all his family had been brought up as Roman Catholics.

<p>"I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than
we have," said Carbury.

<p>"She'd catch herself.&nbsp; Wherever she might be she'd go to the
priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way
back to her friends."

<p>"With a flea in her lug," suggested the farmer.

<p>"Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress.&nbsp; It's
the last thing they'd think of.&nbsp; Any one might more probably be
regarded as a friend than the parson.&nbsp; But with us the poor know
where to look for sympathy."

<p>"She ain't that poor, neither," said the grandfather.

<p>"She had money with her?"

<p>"I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up
poor.&nbsp; And I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any
clergyman.&nbsp; It never was her way."

<p>"It never is the way with a Protestant," said the priest.

<p>"We'll say no more about that for the present," said Roger, who
was waxing wroth with the priest.&nbsp; That a man should be fond of
his own religion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think
that Father Barham was too fond of his religion.&nbsp; "What had we
better do?&nbsp; I suppose we shall hear something of her at the
railway.&nbsp; There are not so many people leaving Beccles but that
she may be remembered."&nbsp; So the waggonette was ordered, and they
all prepared to go off to the station together.

<p>But before they started John Crumb rode up to the door.&nbsp; He
had gone at once to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had
followed the farmer from thence to Carbury.&nbsp; Now he found the
squire and the priest and the old man standing around as the horses
were being put to the carriage.&nbsp; "Ye ain't a' found her, Mr
Ruggles, ha' ye?" he asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

<p>"Noa;&mdash;we ain't a' found no one yet."

<p>"If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr Carbury, I'd never
forgive myself,&mdash;never," said Crumb.

<p>"As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend,"
said the squire.

<p>"In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is.&nbsp; I was over
there last night a bothering of her.&nbsp; She'd a' come round may
be, if she'd a' been left alone.&nbsp; She wouldn't a' been off now,
only for our going over to Sheep's Acre.&nbsp; But,&mdash;oh!"

<p>"What is it, Mr Crumb?"

<p>"He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk,
I've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn.&nbsp; But if your
baronite has been and done this!&nbsp; Oh, Mr Carbury!&nbsp; If I was
to wring his neck round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would
ye, now?"&nbsp; Roger could hardly answer the question.&nbsp; On
general grounds the wringing of Sir Felix's neck, let the immediate
cause for such a performance have been what it might, would have
seemed to him to be a good deed.&nbsp; The world would be better,
according to his thinking, with Sir Felix out of it than in it.&nbsp;
But still the young man was his cousin and a Carbury, and to such a
one as John Crumb he was bound to defend any member of his family as
far as he might be defensible.&nbsp; "They says as how he was groping
about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hiding himself and
skulking behind hedges.&nbsp; Drat 'em all.&nbsp; They've gals enough
of their own,&mdash;them fellows.&nbsp; Why can't they let a fellow
alone?&nbsp; I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;&mdash;if he's
had a hand in this."&nbsp; Poor John Crumb!&nbsp; When he had his
mistress to win he could find no words for himself; but was obliged
to take an eloquent baker with him to talk for him.&nbsp; Now in his
anger he could talk freely enough.

<p>"But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do
with this, Mr Crumb."

<p>"In coorse; in coorse.&nbsp; That's right.&nbsp; That's
right.&nbsp; Must l'arn as he did it, afore I does it.&nbsp; But when
I have l'arned&mdash;!"&nbsp; And John Crumb clenched his fist as though a
very short lesson would suffice for him upon this occasion.

<p>They all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the
Beccles Post-office,&mdash;so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as
Bungay.&nbsp; At the railway station Ruby was distinctly
remembered.&nbsp; She had taken a second-class ticket by the morning
train for London, and had gone off without any appearance of
secrecy.&nbsp; She had been decently dressed, with a hat and cloak,
and her luggage had been such as she might have been expected to
carry, had all her friends known that she was going.&nbsp; So much
was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could be
learned there.&nbsp; Then a message was sent by telegraph to the
station in London, and they all waited, loitering about the
Post-office, for a reply.&nbsp; One of the porters in London
remembered seeing such a girl as was described, but the man who was
supposed to have carried her box for her to a cab had gone away for
the day.&nbsp; It was believed that she had left the station in a
four-wheel cab.&nbsp; "I'll be arter her.&nbsp; I'll be arter her at
once," said John Crumb.&nbsp; But there was no train till night, and
Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do any good.&nbsp;
It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first step towards
finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body of Sir
Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Now it was not at all apparent to the squire
that his cousin had had anything to do with this affair.&nbsp; It had
been made quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his
granddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not
because she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of her
refusing to marry John Crumb.&nbsp; John Crumb had gone over to the
farm expecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been
no fear about Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Nor was it possible that there
should have been communication between Ruby and Felix since the
quarrel at the farm.&nbsp; Even if the old man were right in
supposing that Ruby and the baronet had been acquainted,&mdash;and such
acquaintance could not but be prejudicial to the girl,&mdash;not on that
account would the baronet be responsible for her abduction.&nbsp;
John Crumb was thirsting for blood and was not very capable in his
present mood of arguing the matter out coolly, and Roger, little as
he toyed his cousin, was not desirous that all Suffolk should know
that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed within an inch of his life
by John Crumb of Bungay.&nbsp; "I'll tell you what I'll do," said he,
putting his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.&nbsp; "I'll go up
myself by the first train to-morrow.&nbsp; I can trace her better
than Mr Crumb can do, and you will both trust me."

<p>"There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon," said the
old man.

<p>"But you'll let us know the very truth," said John Crumb.&nbsp;
Roger Carbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him
know the truth.&nbsp; So the matter was settled, and the grandfather
and lover returned together to Bungay.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="35"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXV.&nbsp; Melmotte's Glory</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Augustus Melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every
direction,&mdash;mightier and mightier every day.&nbsp; He was learning to
despise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a
duke.&nbsp; In truth he did recognize it as a fact that he must
either domineer over dukes, or else go to the wall.&nbsp; It can
hardly be said of him that he had intended to play so high a game,
but the game that he had intended to play had become thus high of its
own accord.&nbsp; A man cannot always restrain his own doings and
keep them within the limits which he had himself planned for
them.&nbsp; They will very often fall short of the magnitude to which
his ambition has aspired.&nbsp; They will sometimes soar higher than
his own imagination.&nbsp; So it had now been with Mr Melmotte.&nbsp;
He had contemplated great things; but the things which he was
achieving were beyond his contemplation.

<p>The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in
England.&nbsp; Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much
thought.&nbsp; He had never read a book.&nbsp; He had never written a
line worth reading.&nbsp; He had never said a prayer.&nbsp; He cared
nothing for humanity.&nbsp; He had sprung out of some Californian
gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father and mother, and had
tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own audacity.&nbsp;
But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessary impetus
for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into almost unprecedented
commercial greatness.&nbsp; When Mr Melmotte took his offices in
Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so great
as when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had become not
only an established fact, but a fact established in Abchurch
Lane.&nbsp; The great company indeed had an office of its own, where
the Board was held; but everything was really managed in Mr
Melmotte's own commercial sanctum.&nbsp; Obeying, no doubt, some
inscrutable law of commerce, the grand enterprise,&mdash;"perhaps the
grandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which
has ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people,"
as Mr Fisker with his peculiar eloquence observed through his nose,
about this time, to a meeting of shareholders at San Francisco,&mdash;had
swung itself across from California to London, turning itself to the
centre of the commercial world as the needle turns to the pole, till
Mr Fisker almost regretted the deed which himself had done.&nbsp; And
Melmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of it
all.&nbsp; The shares seemed to be all in Melmotte's pocket, so that
he could distribute them as he would; and it seemed also that when
distributed and sold, and when bought again and sold again, they came
back to Melmotte's pocket.&nbsp; Men were contented to buy their
shares and to pay their money, simply on Melmotte's word.&nbsp; Sir
Felix had realized a large portion of his winnings at cards,&mdash;with
commendable prudence for one so young and extravagant,&mdash;and had
brought his savings to the great man.&nbsp; The great man had swept
the earnings of the Beargarden into his till, and had told Sir Felix
that the shares were his.&nbsp; Sir Felix had been not only
contented, but supremely happy.&nbsp; He could now do as Paul
Montague was doing,&mdash;and Lord Alfred Grendall.&nbsp; He could realize
a perennial income, buying and selling.&nbsp; It was only after the
reflection of a day or two that he found that he had as yet got
nothing to sell.&nbsp; It was not only Sir Felix that was admitted
into these good things after this fashion.&nbsp; Sir Felix was but
one among hundreds.&nbsp; In the meantime the bills in Grosvenor
Square were no doubt paid with punctuality,&mdash;and these bills must
have been stupendous.&nbsp; The very servants were as tall, as
gorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty,&mdash;and
remunerated by much higher wages.&nbsp; There were four coachmen with
egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference of
calf less than eighteen inches.

<p>And now there appeared a paragraph in the "Morning Breakfast
Table," and another appeared in the "Evening Pulpit," telling the
world that Mr Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent
Sussex property of Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq., of Caversham.&nbsp;
And it was so.&nbsp; The father and son, who never had agreed before,
and who now had come to no agreement in the presence of each other,
had each considered that their affairs would be safe in the hands of
so great a man as Mr Melmotte, and had been brought to terms.&nbsp;
The purchase-money, which was large, was to be divided between
them.&nbsp; The thing was done with the greatest ease,&mdash;there being
no longer any delay as is the case when small people are at
work.&nbsp; The magnificence of Mr Melmotte affected even the
Longestaffe lawyers.&nbsp; Were I to buy a little property, some
humble cottage with a garden,&mdash;or you, O reader, unless you be
magnificent,&mdash;the money to the last farthing would be wanted, or
security for the money more than sufficient, before we should be able
to enter in upon our new home.&nbsp; But money was the very breath of
Melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for
money.&nbsp; Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London
builder had collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at
Chichester, and was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a
residence for Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; There were rumours that it was
to be made ready for the Goodwood week, and that the Melmotte
entertainment during that festival would rival the duke's.

<p>But there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood
week should come round, in all of which Mr Melmotte was concerned,
and of much of which Mr Melmotte was the very centre.&nbsp; A member
for Westminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was
vacated.&nbsp; It was considered to be indispensable to the country
that Mr Melmotte should go into Parliament, and what constituency
could such a man as Melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as
Westminster does all the essences of the metropolis?&nbsp; There was
the popular element, the fashionable element, the legislative
element, the legal element, and the commercial element.&nbsp;
Melmotte undoubtedly was the man for Westminster.&nbsp; His thorough
popularity was evinced by testimony which perhaps was never before
given in favour of any candidate for any county or borough.&nbsp; In
Westminster there must of course be a contest.&nbsp; A seat for
Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by either political party
without a struggle.&nbsp; But, at the beginning of the affair, when
each party had to seek the most suitable candidate which the country
could supply, each party put its hand upon Melmotte.&nbsp; And when
the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested to Melmotte,
then for the first time was that great man forced to descend from the
altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decide whether he
would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal.&nbsp; He was
not long in convincing himself that the conservative element in
British Society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance
which it would be in his province to give; and on the next day every
hoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was the
conservative candidate for Westminster. It is needless to say that
his committee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all
that absence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous
since the ballot was introduced among us.&nbsp; Some unfortunate
Liberal was to be made to run against him, for the sake of the party;
but the odds were ten to one on Melmotte.

<p>This no doubt was a great matter,&mdash;this affair of the seat; but
the dinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much
greater.&nbsp; It was the middle of June, and the dinner was to be
given on Monday, 8th July, now three weeks hence;&mdash;but all London was
already talking of it.&nbsp; The great purport proposed was to show
to the Emperor by this banquet what an English merchant-citizen of
London could do.&nbsp; Of course there was a great amount of scolding
and a loud clamour on the occasion.&nbsp; Some men said that Melmotte
was not a citizen of London, others that he was not a merchant,
others again that he was not an Englishman.&nbsp; But no man could
deny that he was both able and willing to spend the necessary money;
and as this combination of ability and will was the chief thing
necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could only storm and
scold.&nbsp; On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work, throwing
up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generally transmuting
the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion that two hundred
guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room of a
British merchant.

<p>But who were to be the two hundred?&nbsp; It used to be the case
that when a gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;&mdash;but
when affairs become great, society can hardly be carried on after
that simple fashion.&nbsp; The Emperor of China could not be made to
sit at table without English royalty, and English royalty must know
whom it has to meet,&mdash;must select at any rate some of its
comrades.&nbsp; The minister of the day also had his candidates for
the dinner,&mdash;in which arrangement there was however no private
patronage, as the list was confined to the cabinet and their
wives.&nbsp; The Prime Minister took some credit to himself in that
he would not ask for a single ticket for a private friend.&nbsp; But
the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats.&nbsp; Melmotte
had elected to stand for Westminster on the conservative interest,
and was advised that he must insist on having as it were a
conservative cabinet present, with its conservative wives.&nbsp; He
was told that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted
payment of the debt.&nbsp; But the great difficulty lay with the city
merchants.&nbsp; This was to be a city merchant's private feast, and
it was essential that the Emperor should meet this great merchant's
brother merchants at the merchant's board.&nbsp; No doubt the Emperor
would see all the merchants at the Guildhall; but that would be a
semi-public affair, paid for out of the funds of a corporation.&nbsp;
This was to be a private dinner.&nbsp; Now the Lord Mayor had set his
face against it, and what was to be done?&nbsp; Meetings were held; a
committee was appointed; merchant guests were selected, to the number
of fifteen with their fifteen wives;&mdash;and subsequently the Lord Mayor
was made a baronet on the occasion of receiving the Emperor in the
city.&nbsp; The Emperor with his suite was twenty.&nbsp; Royalty had
twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife.&nbsp; The existing
Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered at about eleven
only;&mdash;each one for self and wife.&nbsp; Five ambassadors and five
ambassadresses were to be asked.&nbsp; There were to be fifteen real
merchants out of the city.&nbsp; Ten great peers,&mdash;with their
peeresses,&mdash;were selected by the general committee of
management.&nbsp; There were to be three wise men, two poets, three
independent members of the House of Commons, two Royal Academicians,
three editors of papers, an African traveller who had just come home,
and a novelist;&mdash;but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come
as bachelors.&nbsp; Three tickets were to be kept over for
presentation to bores endowed with a power of making themselves
absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment,&mdash;and ten
were left for the giver of the feast and his own family and
friends.&nbsp; It is often difficult to make things go smooth,&mdash;but
almost all roughnesses may be smoothed at last with patience and
care, and money, and patronage.

<p>But the dinner was not to be all.&nbsp; Eight hundred additional
tickets were to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening
entertainment, and the fight for these was more internecine than for
seats at the dinner.&nbsp; The dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in
so statesmanlike a fashion that there was not much visible fighting
about them.&nbsp; Royalty manages its affairs quietly.&nbsp; The
existing Cabinet was existing, and though there were two or three
members of it who could not have got themselves elected at a single
unpolitical club in London, they had a right to their seats at
Melmotte's table.&nbsp; What disappointed ambition there might be
among conservative candidates was never known to the public.&nbsp;
Those gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public.&nbsp; The
ambassadors of course were quiet, but we may be sure that the
Minister from the United States was among the favoured five.&nbsp;
The city bankers and bigwigs, as has been already said, were at first
unwilling to be present, and therefore they who were not chosen could
not afterwards express their displeasure.&nbsp; No grumbling was
heard among the peers, and that which came from the peeresses floated
down into the current of the great fight about the evening
entertainment.&nbsp; The poet laureate was of course asked, and the
second poet was as much a matter of course.&nbsp; Only two
Academicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was no
ground for jealousy there.&nbsp; There were three, and only three,
specially insolent and specially disagreeable independent members of
Parliament at that time in the House, and there was no difficulty in
selecting them.&nbsp; The wise men were chosen by their age.&nbsp;
Among editors of newspapers there was some ill-blood.&nbsp; That Mr
Alf and Mr Broune should be selected was almost a matter of
course.&nbsp; They were hated accordingly, but still this was
expected.&nbsp; But why was Mr Booker there?&nbsp; Was it because he
had praised the Prime Minister's translation of Catullus?&nbsp; The
African traveller chose himself by living through all his perils and
coming home.&nbsp; A novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted
another ticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to
come in after dinner.&nbsp; His proud heart, however, resented the
treatment, and he joined amicably with his literary brethren in
decrying the festival altogether.

<p>We should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story
were we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the
feud as it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right
to indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning
passion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not
be indulged.&nbsp; The value of the privilege was so great that
Madame Melmotte thought that she was doing almost more than
friendship called for when she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe,
that unfortunately there would be no seat for her at the
dinner-table; but that, as payment for her loss, she should receive
an evening ticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and
his wife.&nbsp; Georgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted
the compromise.&nbsp; What she did with her tickets shall be
hereafter told.

<p>From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr Melmotte
of the present hour was a very different man from that Mr Melmotte
who was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this
chronicle.&nbsp; Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his
house now without his being allowed to see it.&nbsp; No manoeuvres
now were necessary to catch a simple duchess.&nbsp; Duchesses were
willing enough to come.&nbsp; Lord Alfred when he was called by his
Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges.&nbsp; He was only too
anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the great
man.&nbsp; It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that
very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the
world the great man was perched at that moment.&nbsp; Miss
Longestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how
great a man her host was.&nbsp; Lady Monogram when she refused to go
to Grosvenor Square, or even to allow any one to come out of the
house in Grosvenor Square to her parties, was groping in outer
darkness.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte did not know.&nbsp; Marie Melmotte
did not know.&nbsp; The great man did not quite know himself where,
from time to time, he was standing.&nbsp; But the world at large
knew.&nbsp; The world knew that Mr Melmotte was to be Member for
Westminster, that Mr Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China,
that Mr Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican
Railway in his pocket;&mdash;and the world worshipped Mr Melmotte.

<p>In the meantime Mr Melmotte was much troubled about his private
affairs.&nbsp; He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and
as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for
this marriage,&mdash;not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be
ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it.&nbsp; Fifteen
thousand a year was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and
twenty thousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six
months after the marriage.&nbsp; Melmotte gave his reasons for not
paying this sum at once.&nbsp; Nidderdale would be more likely to be
quiet, if he were kept waiting for that short time.&nbsp; Melmotte
was to purchase and furnish for them a house in town.&nbsp; It was,
too, almost understood that the young people were to have Pickering
Park for themselves, except for a week or so at the end of
July.&nbsp; It was absolutely given out in the papers that Pickering
was to be theirs.&nbsp; It was said on all sides that Nidderdale was
doing very well for himself.&nbsp; The absolute money was not perhaps
so great as had been at first asked; but then, at that time, Melmotte
was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce, the very
navel of the commercial enterprise of the world,&mdash;as all men now
regarded him.&nbsp; Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself,
were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much
less stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first
to exact.

<p>But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time
consented at her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who
in some speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord
and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind.&nbsp;
Her father scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter
was of no concern.&nbsp; He intended that she should marry Lord
Nidderdale, and himself fixed some day in August for the
wedding.&nbsp; "It is no use, father, for I will never have him,"
said Marie.

<p>"Is it about that other scamp?" he asked angrily.

<p>"If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him.&nbsp; He has been
to you and told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my
tongue."

<p>"You'll both starve, my lady; that's all."&nbsp; Marie however was
not so wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor
Square as to be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might
have to suffer if married to Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Melmotte had
not time for any long discussion.&nbsp; As he left her he took hold
of her and shook her.&nbsp; "By&mdash;," he said, "if you run rusty after
all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer.&nbsp; You little fool;
that man's a beggar.&nbsp; He hasn't the price of a petticoat or a
pair of stockings.&nbsp; He's looking only for what you haven't got,
and shan't have if you marry him.&nbsp; He wants money, not you, you
little fool!"

<p>But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when
Nidderdale spoke to her.&nbsp; They had been engaged and then it had
been off;&mdash;and now the young nobleman, having settled everything with
the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything
with the girl.&nbsp; He was not very skilful at making love,&mdash;but he
was thoroughly good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and
averse to give pain.&nbsp; There was hardly any injury which he could
not forgive, and hardly any kindness which he would not do,&mdash;so that
the labour upon himself was not too great.&nbsp; "Well, Miss
Melmotte," he said, "governors are stern beings: are they not?"

<p>"Is yours stern, my lord?"

<p>"What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them.&nbsp; I
think you understand what I mean.&nbsp; I was awfully spoony on you
that time before; I was indeed."

<p>"I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale."

<p>"That's so like a woman; that is.&nbsp; You know well enough that
you and I can't marry without leave from the governors."

<p>"Nor with it," said Marie, holding her head.

<p>"I don't know how that may be.&nbsp; There was some hitch
somewhere,&mdash;I don't quite know where."&nbsp; The hitch had been with
himself, as he demanded ready money.&nbsp; "But it's all right
now.&nbsp; The old fellows are agreed.&nbsp; Can't we make a match of
it, Miss Melmotte?"

<p>"No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can."

<p>"Do you mean that?"

<p>"I do mean it.&nbsp; When that was going on before I knew nothing
about it.&nbsp; I have seen more of things since then."

<p>"And you've seen somebody you like better than me?"

<p>"I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; I don't think
you ought to blame me, my lord."

<p>"Oh dear no."

<p>"There was something before, but it was you that was off
first.&nbsp; Wasn't it now?"

<p>"The governors were off, I think."

<p>"The governors have a right to be off, I suppose.&nbsp; But I
don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one."

<p>"I agree with you there;&mdash;I do indeed," said Lord Nidderdale.

<p>"And no governor shall make me marry.&nbsp; I've thought a great
deal about it since that other time, and that's what I've come to
determine."

<p>"But I don't know why you shouldn't&mdash;just marry me&mdash;because
you&mdash;like me."

<p>"Only,&mdash;just because I don't.&nbsp; Well; I do like you, Lord
Nidderdale."

<p>"Thanks;&mdash;so much!"

<p>"I like you ever so,&mdash;only marrying a person is different."

<p>"There's something in that, to be sure."

<p>"And I don't mind telling you," said Marie with an almost solemn
expression on her countenance, "because you are good-natured and
won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like
somebody else;&mdash;oh, so much."

<p>"I supposed that was it."

<p>"That is it."

<p>"It's a deuced pity.&nbsp; The governors had settled everything,
and we should have been awfully jolly.&nbsp; I'd have gone in for all
the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up
a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with.&nbsp; You
couldn't think of it again?"

<p>"I tell you, my lord, I'm&mdash;in love."

<p>"Oh, ah;&mdash;yes.&nbsp; So you were saying.&nbsp; It's an awful
bore.&nbsp; That's all.&nbsp; I shall come to the party all the same
if you send me a ticket."&nbsp; And so Nidderdale took his dismissal,
and went away,&mdash;not however without an idea that the marriage would
still come off.&nbsp; There was always,&mdash;so he thought,&mdash;such a
bother about things before they would get themselves fixed.&nbsp;
This happened some days after Mr Broune's proposal to Lady Carbury,
more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix.&nbsp; As soon as
Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that
she might hear from him,&mdash;and entrusted her letter to Didon.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="36"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVI.&nbsp; Mr Broune's Perils</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr
Broune's proposition.&nbsp; It was made on Tuesday night and she was
bound by her promise to send a reply some time on Thursday.&nbsp; But
early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon
on that day her letter was written.&nbsp; She had spoken to Hetta
about the man, and she had seen that Hetta had disliked him.&nbsp;
She was not disposed to be much guided by Hetta's opinion.&nbsp; In
regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that
Hetta was an unnecessary trouble.&nbsp; There was an excellent match
ready for her if she would only accept it.&nbsp; There was no reason
why Hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden.&nbsp;
She never said this even to herself,&mdash;but she felt it, and was not
therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this occasion.&nbsp;
But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect.&nbsp; She
had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very
bad.&nbsp; She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake,&mdash;having
even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of
her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position
at the expense of suffering and servility.&nbsp; But that had been
done.&nbsp; The maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of
her son's vices; but it might so probably be again secured,&mdash;by means
of her son's beauty!&nbsp; Hetta had said that Mr Broune liked his
own way.&nbsp; Had not she herself found that all men liked their own
way?&nbsp; And she liked her own way.&nbsp; She liked the comfort of
a home to herself.&nbsp; Personally she did not want the
companionship of a husband.&nbsp; And what scenes would there be
between Felix and the man!&nbsp; And added to all this there was
something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her
that it was not right that she should burden any one with the
responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son
Felix.&nbsp; What would she do were her husband to command her to
separate herself from her son?&nbsp; In such circumstances she would
certainly separate herself from her husband.&nbsp; Having considered
these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr Broune:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAREST FRIEND,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I need not tell you that I have thought
much of your generous and affectionate offer.&nbsp; How could I refuse
such a prospect as you offer me without much thought?&nbsp; I regard
your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can
achieve.&nbsp; And in that career no one is your superior.&nbsp; I
cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be
his wife.&nbsp; But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are
incurable, and my life has been so wounded.&nbsp; I have not strength
left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your
acceptance.&nbsp; I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the
sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone.&nbsp; It cannot
all be described;&mdash;and yet with you I would have no reticence.&nbsp; I
would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles
past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears,&mdash;with every
circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains,
were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your
patience.&nbsp; The result of it would be to make you feel that I am
no longer fit to enter in upon a new home.&nbsp; I should bring
showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I will, however, be bold enough to
assure you that could I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would
now become your wife.&nbsp; But I shall never marry again.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nevertheless, I am your most
affectionate friend,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MATILDA CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>About six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr
Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone,&mdash;full
of regrets.&nbsp; She had thrown away from her a firm footing which
would certainly have served her for her whole life.&nbsp; Even at this
moment she was in debt,&mdash;and did not know how to pay her debts without
mortgaging her life income.&nbsp; She longed for some staff on which
she could lean.&nbsp; She was afraid of the future.&nbsp; When she
would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the
press, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical
details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to
be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's
horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about the
marriage.&nbsp; As regarded herself, Mr Broune would have made her
secure,&mdash;but that now was all over.&nbsp; Poor woman!&nbsp; This at
any rate may be said for her,&mdash;that had she accepted the man her
regrets would have been as deep.

<p>Mr Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of
the lady.&nbsp; He had not made his offer without consideration, and
yet from the very moment in which it had been made he repented
it.&nbsp; That gently sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had
described him to herself when he had kissed her best explained that
side of Mr Broune's character which showed itself in this
matter.&nbsp; He was a susceptible old goose.&nbsp; Had she allowed
him to kiss her without objection, the kissing might probably have
gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no
offer of marriage.&nbsp; He had believed that her little manoeuvres
had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself constrained to
reciprocate the passion.&nbsp; She was beautiful in his eyes.&nbsp;
She was bright.&nbsp; She wore her clothes like a lady; and,&mdash;if it
was written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at the
top of his table,&mdash;Lady Carbury would look as well there as any
other.&nbsp; She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt
himself bound to obtain for himself the right to kiss her.

<p>The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in,
drunk, at the front door.&nbsp; As he made his escape the lad had
insulted him.&nbsp; This perhaps helped to open his eyes.&nbsp; When
he woke the next morning, or rather late in the next day, after his
night's work, he was no longer able to tell himself that the world was
all right with him.&nbsp; Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness
at waking, that first matutinal retrospection, and prospection, into
things as they have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the
blankness of hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly
lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent,&mdash;or perhaps a
cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should
have left untasted?&nbsp; And when things have gone well, how the
waker comforts himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself
to be whole all over, teres atque rotundus,&mdash;so to have managed his
little affairs that he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at
no error!&nbsp; Mr Broune, the way of whose life took him among many
perils, who in the course of his work had to steer his bark among many
rocks, was in the habit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook
off sleep about noon,&mdash;for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed
before four or five in the morning.&nbsp; On this Wednesday he found
that he could not balance his sheet comfortably.&nbsp; He had taken a
very great step and he feared that he had not taken it with
wisdom.&nbsp; As he drank the cup of tea with which his servant
supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of himself,
teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things were well with
him.&nbsp; Everything was to be changed.&nbsp; As he lit a cigarette
he bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in
her bedroom.&nbsp; Then he remembered other things.&nbsp; "I'll be
d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; if he shall live in my house," he said
to himself.

<p>And there was no way out of it.&nbsp; It did not occur to the man
that his offer could be refused.&nbsp; During the whole of that day
he went about among his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying
little snappish uncivil things at the club, and at last dining by
himself with about fifteen newspapers around him.&nbsp; After dinner
he did not speak a word to any man, but went early to the office of
the newspaper in Trafalgar Square at which he did his nightly
work.&nbsp; Here he was lapped in comforts,&mdash;if the best of chairs,
of sofas, of writing tables, and of reading lamps can make a man
comfortable who has to read nightly thirty columns of a newspaper, or
at any rate to make himself responsible for their contents.

<p>He seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw Lady
Carbury's letter on the table before him.&nbsp; It was his custom
when he did not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at
his office as had reached his home during his absence;&mdash;and here was
Lady Carbury's letter.&nbsp; He knew her writing well, and was aware
that here was the confirmation of his fate.&nbsp; It had not been
expected, as she had given herself another day for her answer,&mdash;but
here it was, beneath his hand.&nbsp; Surely this was almost
unfeminine haste.&nbsp; He chucked the letter, unopened, a little
from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention on some printed slip
that was ready for him.&nbsp; For some ten minutes his eyes went
rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did not follow
what he was reading.&nbsp; He struggled again, but still his thoughts
were on the letter.&nbsp; He did not wish to open it, having some
vague idea that, till the letter should have been read, there was a
chance of escape.&nbsp; The letter would not become due to be read
till the next day.&nbsp; It should not have been there now to tempt
his thoughts on this night.&nbsp; But he could do nothing while it
lay there.&nbsp; "It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall
never have to see him," he said to himself, as he opened it.&nbsp;
The second line told him that the danger was over.

<p>When he had read so far he stood up with his back to the
fireplace, leaving the letter on the table.&nbsp; Then, after all,
the woman wasn't in love with him!&nbsp; But that was a reading of
the affair which he could hardly bring himself to look upon as
correct.&nbsp; The woman had shown her love by a thousand
signs.&nbsp; There was no doubt, however, that she now had her
triumph.&nbsp; A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a
man,&mdash;and more especially when she does so at a certain time of
life.&nbsp; Would she publish her triumph?&nbsp; Mr Broune would not
like to have it known about among brother editors, or by the world at
large, that he had offered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady
Carbury had refused him.&nbsp; He had escaped; but the sweetness of
his present safety was not in proportion to the bitterness of his
late fears.

<p>He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused
him!&nbsp; As he reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the
moment passed away from him.&nbsp; Full ten minutes had passed,
during which he had still stood upon the rug, before he read the
entire letter.&nbsp; "'Cut and scotched and lopped!' I suppose she
has been," he said to himself.&nbsp; He had heard much of Sir
Patrick, and knew well that the old general had been no lamb.&nbsp;
"I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her."&nbsp;
When he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him
gradually a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever
yet felt,&mdash;and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his
offer to her. "'Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of
mirth,'" he repeated to himself.&nbsp; "I should have done the best
for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were
necessary."

<p>He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly
without that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered
the room.&nbsp; Gradually, through the night, he realized the
conviction that he had escaped, and threw from him altogether the
idea of repeating his offer.&nbsp; Before he left he wrote her a
line:

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Be it so.&nbsp; It need not break our
friendship.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;N. B.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to
his lodgings long before he was up on the following morning.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No;&mdash;no; certainly not.&nbsp; No word
of this will ever pass my mouth.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;M. C.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Mr Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and
resolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that his
friendship could do for her.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="37"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVII.&nbsp; The Board-Room</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>On Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific
and Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was
the Board's custom every Friday.&nbsp; On this occasion all the
members were there, as it had been understood that the chairman was
to make a special statement.&nbsp; There was the great chairman as a
matter of course.&nbsp; In the midst of his numerous and immense
concerns he never threw over the railway, or delegated to other less
experienced hands those cares which the commercial world had
intrusted to his own.&nbsp; Lord Alfred was there, with Mr Cohenlupe,
the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague, and Lord Nidderdale,&mdash;and
even Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Sir Felix had come, being very anxious
to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity of
realizing his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a thousand
pounds in hard money into Mr Melmotte's hands.&nbsp; The secretary,
Mr Miles Grendall, was also present as a matter of course.&nbsp; The
Board always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a
quarter past three.&nbsp; Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe sat at the
chairman's right and left hand.&nbsp; Paul Montague generally sat
immediately below, with Miles Grendall opposite to him;&mdash;but on this
occasion the young lord and the young baronet took the next
places.&nbsp; It was a nice little family party, the great chairman
with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his two particular friends,&mdash;the
social friend, Lord Alfred, and the commercial friend Mr
Cohenlupe,&mdash;and Miles, who was Lord Alfred's son.&nbsp; It would have
been complete in its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who had
lately made himself disagreeable to Mr Melmotte;&mdash;and most
ungratefully so, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use
of the shares as the younger member of the house of Fisker, Montague,
and Montague.

<p>It was understood that Mr Melmotte was to make a statement.&nbsp;
Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done
as it were out of the great man's heart, of his own wish, so that
something of the condition of the company might be made known to the
directors of the company.&nbsp; But this was not perhaps exactly the
truth.&nbsp; Paul Montague had insisted on giving vent to certain
doubts at the last meeting but one, and, having made himself very
disagreeable indeed, had forced this trouble on the great
chairman.&nbsp; On the intermediate Friday the chairman had made
himself very unpleasant to Paul, and this had seemed to be an effort
on his part to frighten the inimical director out of his opposition,
so that the promise of a statement need not be fulfilled.&nbsp; What
nuisance can be so great to a man busied with immense affairs, as to
have to explain,&mdash;or to attempt to explain,&mdash;small details to men
incapable of understanding them?&nbsp; But Montague had stood to his
guns.&nbsp; He had not intended, he said, to dispute the commercial
success of the company.&nbsp; But he felt very strongly, and he
thought that his brother directors should feel as strongly, that it
was necessary that they should know more than they did know.&nbsp;
Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least agree with his
brother director.&nbsp; "If anybody don't understand, it's his own
fault," said Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; But Paul would not give way, and it
was understood that Mr Melmotte would make a statement.

<p>The "Boards" were always commenced by the reading of a certain
record of the last meeting out of a book.&nbsp; This was always done
by Miles Grendall; and the record was supposed to have been written
by him.&nbsp; But Montague had discovered that this statement in the
book was always prepared and written by a satellite of Melmotte's
from Abchurch Lane who was never present at the meeting.&nbsp; The
adverse director had spoken to the secretary,&mdash;it will be remembered
that they were both members of the Beargarden,&mdash;and Miles had given a
somewhat evasive reply.&nbsp; "A cussed deal of trouble and all that,
you know!&nbsp; He's used to it, and it's what he's meant for.&nbsp;
I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that kind."&nbsp;
Montague after this had spoken on the subject both to Nidderdale and
Felix Carbury.&nbsp; "He couldn't do it, if it was ever so,"
Nidderdale had said.&nbsp; "I don't think I'd bully him if I were
you.&nbsp; He gets &pound;500 a-year, and if you knew all he owes, and all
he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him of it."&nbsp; With Felix
Carbury, Montague had as little success.&nbsp; Sir Felix hated the
secretary, had detected him cheating at cards, had resolved to expose
him,&mdash;and had then been afraid to do so.&nbsp; He had told Dolly
Longestaffe, and the reader will perhaps remember with what
effect.&nbsp; He had not mentioned the affair again, and had
gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club.&nbsp;
Loo, however, had given way to whist, and Sir Felix had satisfied
himself with the change.&nbsp; He still meditated some dreadful
punishment for Miles Grendall, but, in the meantime, felt himself
unable to oppose him at the Board.&nbsp; Since the day at which the
aces had been manipulated at the club he had not spoken to Miles
Grendall except in reference to the affairs of the whist table.&nbsp;
The "Board" was now commenced as usual.&nbsp; Miles read the short
record out of the book,&mdash;stumbling over every other word, and going
through the performance so badly that had there been anything to
understand no one could have understood it.&nbsp; "Gentlemen," said
Mr Melmotte, in his usual hurried way, "is it your pleasure that I
shall sign the record?"&nbsp; Paul Montague rose to say that it was
not his pleasure that the record should be signed.&nbsp; But Melmotte
had made his scrawl, and was deep in conversation with Mr Cohenlupe
before Paul could get upon his legs.

<p>Melmotte, however, had watched the little struggle.&nbsp;
Melmotte, whatever might be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to
hear.&nbsp; He perceived that Montague had made a little struggle and
had been cowed; and he knew how hard it is for one man to persevere
against five or six, and for a young man to persevere against his
elders.&nbsp; Nidderdale was filliping bits of paper across the table
at Carbury.&nbsp; Miles Grendall was poring over the book which was
in his charge.&nbsp; Lord Alfred sat back in his chair, the picture
of a model director, with his right hand within his waistcoat.&nbsp;
He looked aristocratic, respectable, and almost commercial.&nbsp; In
that room he never by any chance opened his mouth, except when called
on to say that Mr Melmotte was right, and was considered by the
chairman really to earn his money.&nbsp; Melmotte for a minute or two
went on conversing with Cohenlupe, having perceived that Montague for
the moment was cowed.&nbsp; Then Paul put both his hands upon the
table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question.&nbsp;
Melmotte saw this also and was upon his legs before Montague had
risen from his chair.&nbsp; "Gentlemen," said Mr Melmotte, "it may
perhaps be as well if I take this occasion of saying a few words to
you about the affairs of the company."&nbsp; Then, instead of going
on with his statement, he sat down again, and began to turn over
sundry voluminous papers very slowly, whispering a word or two every
now and then to Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; Lord Alfred never changed his
posture and never took his hand from his breast.&nbsp; Nidderdale and
Carbury filliped their paper pellets backwards and forwards.&nbsp;
Montague sat profoundly listening,&mdash;or ready to listen when anything
should be said.&nbsp; As the chairman had risen from his chair to
commence his statement, Paul felt that he was bound to be
silent.&nbsp; When a speaker is in possession of the floor, he is in
possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to his
references, and whispering to his neighbour.&nbsp; And, when that
speaker is a chairman, of course some additional latitude must be
allowed to him.&nbsp; Montague understood this, and sat silent.&nbsp;
It seemed that Melmotte had much to say to Cohenlupe, and Cohenlupe
much to say to Melmotte.&nbsp; Since Cohenlupe had sat at the Board
he had never before developed such powers of conversation.

<p>Nidderdale didn't quite understand it.&nbsp; He had been there
twenty minutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been
unable to hit Carbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the
Beargarden would now be open.&nbsp; He was no respecter of persons,
and had got over any little feeling of awe with which the big table
and the solemnity of the room may have first inspired him.&nbsp; "I
suppose that's about all," he said, looking up at Melmotte.

<p>"Well;&mdash;perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord
here is engaged elsewhere,&mdash;" turning round to Lord Alfred, who had
not uttered a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his
seat, "&mdash;we had better adjourn this meeting for another week."

<p>"I cannot allow that," said Paul Montague.

<p>"I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board," said the
Chairman.

<p>"I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and
Chairman," said Cohenlupe, "and I must say that it is not expedient
just at present to go into matters too freely."

<p>"My Lords and Gentlemen," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "I hope that you
trust me."

<p>Lord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which
was intended to convey most absolute confidence.&nbsp; "Hear, hear,"
said Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; "All right," said Lord Nidderdale; "go on;"
and he fired another pellet with improved success.

<p>"I trust," said the Chairman, "that my young friend, Sir Felix,
doubts neither my discretion nor my ability."

<p>"Oh dear, no;&mdash;not at all," said the baronet, much tattered at
being addressed in this kindly tone.&nbsp; He had come there with
objects of his own, and was quite prepared to support the Chairman on
any matter whatever.

<p>"My Lords and Gentlemen," continued Melmotte, "I am delighted to
receive this expression of your confidence.&nbsp; If I know anything
in the world I know something of commercial matters.&nbsp; I am able
to tell you that we are prospering.&nbsp; I do not know that greater
prosperity has ever been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial
company.&nbsp; I think our friend here, Mr Montague, should be as
feelingly aware of that as any gentleman."

<p>"What do you mean by that, Mr Melmotte?" asked Paul.

<p>"What do I mean?&mdash;Certainly nothing adverse to your character,
sir.&nbsp; Your firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the
affairs of the Company are being transacted on this side of the
water.&nbsp; No doubt you are in correspondence with Mr Fisker.&nbsp;
Ask him.&nbsp; The telegraph wires are open to you, sir.&nbsp; But,
my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able to inform you that in affairs of
this nature great discretion is necessary.&nbsp; On behalf of the
shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands, I think it
expedient that any general statement should be postponed for a short
time, and I flatter myself that in that opinion I shall carry the
majority of this Board with me."&nbsp; Mr Melmotte did not make his
speech very fluently; but, being accustomed to the place which he
occupied, he did manage to get the words spoken in such a way as to
make them intelligible to the company.&nbsp; "I now move that this
meeting be adjourned to this day week," he added.

<p>"I second that motion," said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand
from his breast.

<p>"I understood that we were to have a statement," said Montague.

<p>"You've had a statement," said Mr Cohenlupe.

<p>"I will put my motion to the vote," said the Chairman.&nbsp; "I
shall move an amendment," said Paul, determined that he would not be
altogether silenced.

<p>"There is nobody to second it," said Mr Cohenlupe.

<p>"How do you know till I've made it?" asked the rebel.&nbsp; "I
shall ask Lord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I
think that he will not refuse."

<p>"Oh, gracious me! why me?&nbsp; No;&mdash;don't ask me.&nbsp; I've got
to go away.&nbsp; I have indeed."

<p>"At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words.&nbsp; I do
not say whether every affair of this Company should or should not be
published to the world."

<p>"You'd break up everything if you did," said Cohenlupe.

<p>"Perhaps everything ought to be broken up.&nbsp; But I say nothing
about that.&nbsp; What I do say is this.&nbsp; That as we sit here as
directors and will be held to be responsible as such by the public,
we ought to know what is being done.&nbsp; We ought to know where the
shares really are.&nbsp; I for one do not even know what scrip has
been issued."

<p>"You've bought and sold enough to know something about it," said
Melmotte.

<p>Paul Montague became very red in the face.&nbsp; "I, at any rate,
began," he said, "by putting what was to me a large sum of money into
the affair."

<p>"That's more than I know," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "Whatever shares
you have, were issued at San Francisco, and not here."

<p>"I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for," said
Montague.&nbsp; "Nor have I yet had allotted to me anything like the
number of shares which my capital would represent.&nbsp; But I did
not intend to speak of my own concerns."

<p>"It looks very like it," said Cohenlupe.

<p>"So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss
of everything I have in the world.&nbsp; I am determined to know what
is being done with the shares, or to make it public to the world at
large that I, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth
know anything about it.&nbsp; I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself
from further responsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right
from this time forward,&mdash;and that course I intend to take."

<p>"The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board," said
Melmotte.&nbsp; "There will be no difficulty about that."

<p>"Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear
that there will be difficulty."

<p>"Not in the least," continued the Chairman.&nbsp; "You need only
gazette your resignation and the thing is done.&nbsp; I had intended,
gentlemen, to propose an addition to our number.&nbsp; When I name to
you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally
esteemed throughout England as a man of business, as a man of
probity, and as a man of fortune, a man standing deservedly high in
all British circles, I mean Mr Longestaffe of Caversham&mdash;"

<p>"Young Dolly, or old," asked Lord Nidderdale.

<p>"I mean Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham.&nbsp; I am
sure that you will all be glad to welcome him among you.&nbsp; I had
thought to strengthen our number by this addition.&nbsp; But if Mr
Montague is determined to leave us,&mdash;and no one will regret the loss
of his services so much as I shall,&mdash;it will be my pleasing duty to
move that Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be
requested to take his place.&nbsp; If on consideration Mr Montague
shall determine to remain with us,&mdash;and I for one most sincerely hope
that such reconsideration may lead to such determination,&mdash;then I
shall move that an additional director be added to our number, and
that Mr Longestaffe be requested to take the chair of that additional
director."&nbsp; The latter speech Mr Melmotte got through very
glibly, and then immediately left the chair, so as to show that the
business of the Board was closed for that day without any possibility
of re-opening it.

<p>Paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he
wished to speak to him before they parted.&nbsp; "Certainly," said
the great man bowing.&nbsp; "Carbury," he said, looking round on the
young baronet with his blandest smile, "if you are not in a hurry,
wait a moment for me.&nbsp; I have a word or two to say before you
go.&nbsp; Now, Mr Montague, what can I do for you?"&nbsp; Paul began
his story, expressing again the opinion which he had already very
plainly expressed at the table.&nbsp; But Melmotte stopped him very
shortly, and with much less courtesy than he had shown in the speech
which he had made from the chair.&nbsp; "The thing is about this way,
I take it, Mr Montague;&mdash;you think you know more of this matter than
I do."

<p>"Not at all, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"And I think that I know more of it than you do.&nbsp; Either of
us may be right.&nbsp; But as I don't intend to give way to you,
perhaps the less we speak together about it the better.&nbsp; You
can't be in earnest in the threat you made, because you would be
making public things communicated to you under the seal of
privacy,&mdash;and no gentleman would do that.&nbsp; But as long as you
are hostile to me, I can't help you,&mdash;and so good afternoon."&nbsp;
Then, without giving Montague the possibility of a reply, he escaped
into an inner room which had the word "Private" painted on the door,
and which was supposed to belong to the chairman individually.&nbsp;
He shut the door behind him, and then, after a few moments, put out
his head and beckoned to Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Nidderdale was
gone.&nbsp; Lord Alfred with his son were already on the
stairs.&nbsp; Cohenlupe was engaged with Melmotte's clerk on the
record-book.&nbsp; Paul Montague, finding himself without support and
alone, slowly made his way out into the court.

<p>Sir Felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the
Chairman that having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have
a few shares to go on with.&nbsp; He was, indeed, at the present
moment very nearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards,
all the I.O.U.'s which were in any degree serviceable.&nbsp; He still
had a pocketbook full of those issued by Miles Grendall; but it was
now an understood thing at the Beargarden that no one was to be
called upon to take them except Miles Grendall himself;&mdash;an
arrangement which robbed the card-table of much of its delight.&nbsp;
Beyond this, also, he had lately been forced to issue a little paper
himself,&mdash;in doing which he had talked largely of his shares in the
railway.&nbsp; His case certainly was hard.&nbsp; He had actually
paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, a commercial transaction
which, as performed by himself, he regarded as stupendous.&nbsp; It
was almost incredible to himself that he should have paid any one a
thousand pounds, but he had done it with much difficulty,&mdash;having
carried Dolly junior with him all the way into the city,&mdash;in the
belief that he would thus put himself in the way of making a
continual and unfailing income.&nbsp; He understood that as a
director he would be always entitled to buy shares at par, and, as a
matter of course, always able to sell them at the market price.&nbsp;
This he understood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty per cent,
profit.&nbsp; He would have nothing to do but to buy and sell
daily.&nbsp; He was told that Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a
small extent; and that Melmotte was doing it to an enormous
extent.&nbsp; But before he could do it he must get something,&mdash;he
hardly knew what,&mdash;out of Melmotte's hands.&nbsp; Melmotte certainly
did not seem to shun him, and therefore there could be no difficulty
about the shares.&nbsp; As to danger,&mdash;who could think of danger in
reference to money intrusted to the hands of Augustus Melmotte?

<p>"I am delighted to see you here," said Melmotte, shaking him
cordially by the hand.&nbsp; "You come regularly, and you'll find
that it will be worth your while.&nbsp; There's nothing like
attending to business.&nbsp; You should be here every Friday."

<p>"I will," said the baronet.

<p>"And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch
Lane.&nbsp; I can put you more in the way of understanding things
there than I can here.&nbsp; This is all a mere formal sort of
thing.&nbsp; You can see that."

<p>"Oh yes, I see that."

<p>"We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that
fellow Montague.&nbsp; By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?"

<p>"Not particularly.&nbsp; He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and
the women know him at home.&nbsp; He isn't a pal of mine if you mean
that."

<p>"If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the
wall;&mdash;that's all.&nbsp; But never mind him at present.&nbsp; Was
your mother speaking to you of what I said to her?"

<p>"No, Mr Melmotte," said Sir Felix, staring with all his eyes.

<p>"I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she
might have told you.&nbsp; This is all nonsense, you know, about you
and Marie."&nbsp; Sir Felix looked into the man's face.&nbsp; It was
not savage, as he had seen it.&nbsp; But there had suddenly come upon
his brow that heavy look of a determined purpose which all who knew
the man were wont to mark.&nbsp; Sir Felix had observed it a few
minutes since in the Board-room, when the chairman was putting down
the rebellious director.&nbsp; "You understand that; don't
you?"&nbsp; Sir Felix still looked at him, but made no reply.&nbsp;
"It's all d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; nonsense.&nbsp; You haven't
got a brass farthing, you know.&nbsp; You've no income at all; you're
just living on your mother, and I'm afraid she's not very well
off.&nbsp; How can you suppose that I shall give my girl to
you?"&nbsp; Felix still looked at him but did not dare to contradict
a single statement made.&nbsp; Yet when the man told him that he had
not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand pounds which were
now in the man's pocket.&nbsp; "You're a baronet, and that's about
all, you know," continued Melmotte.&nbsp; "The Carbury property,
which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may
leave it to me if he pleases;&mdash;and who isn't very much older than you
are yourself."

<p>"Oh, come, Mr Melmotte; he's a great deal older than me."

<p>"It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam.&nbsp; The thing is
out of the question, and you must drop it."&nbsp; Then the look on
his brow became a little heavier.&nbsp; "You hear what I say.&nbsp;
She is going to marry Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; She was engaged to him
before you ever saw her.&nbsp; What do you expect to get by it?"

<p>Sir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the
girl he loved.&nbsp; But as the man waited for an answer he was
obliged to say something.&nbsp; "I suppose it's the old story," he
said.

<p>"Just so;&mdash;the old story.&nbsp; You want my money, and she wants
you, just because she has been told to take somebody else.&nbsp; You
want something to live on;&mdash;that's what you want.&nbsp; Come;&mdash;out
with it.&nbsp; Is not that it?&nbsp; When we understand each other
I'll put you in the way of making money."

<p>"Of course I'm not very well off," said Felix.

<p>"About as badly as any young man that I can hear of.&nbsp; You
give me your written promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie,
and you shan't want for money."

<p>"A written promise!"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;a written promise.&nbsp; I give nothing for nothing.&nbsp;
I'll put you in the way of doing so well with these shares that you
shall be able to marry any other girl you please;&mdash;or to live without
marrying, which you'll find to be better."

<p>There was something worthy of consideration in Mr Melmotte's
proposition.&nbsp; Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic
institution, had not specially recommended itself to Sir Felix
Carbury.&nbsp; A few horses at Leighton, Ruby Ruggles or any other
beauty, and life at the Beargarden were much more to his taste.&nbsp;
And then he was quite alive to the fact that it was possible that he
might find himself possessed of the wife without the money.&nbsp;
Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own, with reference to that
settled income; but then Marie might be mistaken,&mdash;or she might be
lying.&nbsp; If he were sure of making money in the way Melmotte now
suggested, the loss of Marie would not break his heart.&nbsp; But
then also Melmotte might be&mdash;lying.&nbsp; "By-the-bye, Mr Melmotte,"
said he, "could you let me have those shares?"

<p>"What shares?"&nbsp; And the heavy brow became still heavier.

<p>"Don't you know?&mdash;I gave you a thousand pounds, and I was to
have ten shares."

<p>"You must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place."

<p>"When is the proper day?"

<p>"It is the twentieth of each month, I think."&nbsp; Sir Felix
looked very blank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the
twenty-first of the month.&nbsp; "But what does that signify?&nbsp;
Do you want a little money?"

<p>"Well, I do," said Sir Felix.&nbsp; "A lot of fellows owe me
money, but it's so hard to get it."

<p>"That tells a story of gambling," said Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; "You
think I'd give my girl to a gambler?"

<p>"Nidderdale's in it quite as thick as I am."

<p>"Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father
can destroy.&nbsp; But don't you be such a fool as to argue with
me.&nbsp; You won't get anything by it.&nbsp; If you'll write that
letter here now&mdash;"

<p>"What;&mdash;to Marie?"

<p>"No;&mdash;not to Marie at all; but to me.&nbsp; It need never be known
to her.&nbsp; If you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of
you.&nbsp; And if you want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a
cheque for it before you leave the room.&nbsp; Mind, I can tell you
this.&nbsp; On my word of honour as a gentleman, if my daughter were
to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling.&nbsp; I should
immediately make a will and leave all my property to St. George's
Hospital.&nbsp; I have quite made up my mind about that."

<p>"And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the
twentieth of next month?"

<p>"I'll see about it.&nbsp; Perhaps I could let you have a few of my
own.&nbsp; At any rate I won't see you short of money."

<p>The terms were enticing and the letter was of course
written.&nbsp; Melmotte himself dictated the words, which were not
romantic in their nature.&nbsp; The reader shall see the letter.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR SIR,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In consideration of the offers made by
you to me, and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be
disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, and would bring down a
father's curse upon your daughter, I hereby declare and promise that
I will not renew my suit to the young lady, which I hereby altogether
renounce.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am, Dear Sir,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your obedient servant,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;FELIX CARBURY.<br>
<br>
AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE, Esq.,<br>
Grosvenor Square.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>The letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of
the offices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.

<p>"You'll give me that cheque for &pound;200, Mr Melmotte?"&nbsp; The
financier hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque
as promised.&nbsp; "And you'll see about letting me have those
shares?"

<p>"You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know."&nbsp; Sir Felix
said that he would call in Abchurch Lane.

<p>As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not
happy in his mind.&nbsp; Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a
gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he
felt ashamed of himself.&nbsp; He was treating the girl very
badly.&nbsp; Even he knew that he was behaving badly.&nbsp; He was so
conscious of it that he tried to console himself by reflecting that
his writing such a letter as that would not prevent his running away
with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his
while to do so.

<p>That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a
great part of Mr Melmotte's money.&nbsp; He did in fact lose much
more than the &pound;200; but when he found his ready money going from him
he issued paper.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="38"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVIII.&nbsp; Paul Montague's Troubles</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble
of the Mexican Railway.&nbsp; It was now more than a fortnight since
he had taken Mrs Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in
lodgings at Islington.&nbsp; He had seen her twice, once on the
following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special
reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days
afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant.&nbsp; She
had wept, and after weeping had stormed.&nbsp; She had stood upon
what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to
her.&nbsp; Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry
her?&nbsp; Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in
London, a repetition of that promise?&nbsp; And then again she became
soft, and pleaded with him.&nbsp; But for the storm he might have
given way.&nbsp; At the moment he had felt that any fate in life
would be better than a marriage on compulsion.&nbsp; Her tears and
her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly.&nbsp; He had
promised her most distinctly.&nbsp; He had loved her and had won her
love.&nbsp; And she was lovely.&nbsp; The very violence of the storm
made the sunshine more sweet.&nbsp; She would sit down on a stool at
his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him.&nbsp; She
would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her.&nbsp;
Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his
arms.&nbsp; How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that
he had promised to be with her again before two days should have
passed.

<p>On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which
was at any rate true in words.&nbsp; He had been summoned, he said,
to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his
return.&nbsp; And he explained that the business on which he was
called was connected with the great American railway, and, being
important, demanded his attention.&nbsp; In words this was
true.&nbsp; He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool
with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having
involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and
Montague.&nbsp; This man he trusted and had consulted, and the
gentleman, Mr Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come
to him at Liverpool.&nbsp; He had gone, and his conduct at the Board
had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may
be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs Hurtle
had not added strength to Mr Ramsbottom's invitation.

<p>In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle, though it can
hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information.&nbsp;
The lady after landing from an American steamer had been at Mr
Ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr Ramsbottom had
thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating
danger.&nbsp; He therefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs
Hurtle, and the fellow-traveller had opined that Mrs Hurtle was "a
queer card."&nbsp; "On board ship we all gave it up to her that she
was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that
there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding."&nbsp; Then Mr
Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow.&nbsp; "There was a
man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man
named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is
still alive.&nbsp; There was, according to him, a queer story about
the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then
having separated."&nbsp; This Mr Ramsbottom, who in an earlier stage
of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs Hurtle together,
managed to communicate to the young man.&nbsp; His advice about the
railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest man
would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by
letter.&nbsp; The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs Hurtle,
could only be given viv&acirc; voce, and perhaps the invitation to
Liverpool had originated in Mr Ramsbottom's appreciation of this
fact.&nbsp; "As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is well
that you should know," his friend said to him.&nbsp; Paul had only
thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own
difficulties.

<p>In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also
been some comfort.&nbsp; It had only been at moments in which he had
been subject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his
adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his
engagement.&nbsp; When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of
his promise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that
she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round
him, looking into his eyes;&mdash;then he would almost yield.&nbsp; But
when, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed
itself;&mdash;and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta
Carbury and of her breeding,&mdash;he was fully determined that, let his
fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of
Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; That he was in a mass of troubles from which it
would be very difficult for him to extricate himself he was well
aware;&mdash;but if it were true that Mr Hurtle was alive, that fact might
help him.&nbsp; She certainly had declared him to be,&mdash;not separated,
or even divorced,&mdash;but dead.&nbsp; And if it were true also that she
had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason
why a gentleman should object to become her second husband.&nbsp;
These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would
enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself
to be a false traitor.

<p>But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct.&nbsp; She
must be made to know the truth.&nbsp; If he meant to reject the lady
finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her
so.&nbsp; He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild
cat's claws.&nbsp; That he would have to undergo some severe
handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life,
he could perceive.&nbsp; Having done what he had done he would have
no right to shrink from such usage.&nbsp; He must tell her to her
face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore
he would not marry her.&nbsp; Of course he might write to her;&mdash;but
when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself,
even to himself, for not going.&nbsp; It was his misfortune,&mdash;and
also his fault,&mdash;that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat.

<p>But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of
information that might have the appearance of real evidence.&nbsp; He
returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on
which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he
did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr Melmotte.&nbsp;
If he could come across that traveller he might learn
something.&nbsp; The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson
Hurtle.&nbsp; If Caradoc Carson Hurtle had been seen in the State of
Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient
evidence.&nbsp; As to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to
prove that, and that if proved, it might be hard to found upon the
fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the
engagement.&nbsp; But there was a rumour also, though not
corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a
gentleman in Oregon.&nbsp; Could he get at the truth of that
story?&nbsp; If they were all true, surely he could justify himself
to himself.

<p>But this detective's work was very distasteful to him.&nbsp; After
having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such
inquiries as these?&nbsp; And it would be almost necessary that he
should take her in his arms again while he was making them,&mdash;unless
indeed he made them with her knowledge.&nbsp; Was it not his duty, as
a man, to tell everything to herself?&nbsp; To speak to her thus:&mdash;"I
am told that your life with your last husband was, to say the least
of it, eccentric; that you even fought a duel with him.&nbsp; I could
not marry a woman who had fought a duel,&mdash;certainly not a woman who
had fought with her own husband.&nbsp; I am told also that you shot
another gentleman in Oregon.&nbsp; It may well be that the gentleman
deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed so repulsive
to me,&mdash;no doubt irrationally,&mdash;that, on that score also, I must
decline to marry you.&nbsp; I am told also that Mr Hurtle has been
seen alive quite lately.&nbsp; I had understood from you that he is
dead.&nbsp; No doubt you may have been deceived.&nbsp; But as I
should not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so now I
consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement
which was based on a misconception."&nbsp; It would no doubt be
difficult to get through all these details; but it might be
accomplished gradually,&mdash;unless in the process of doing so he should
incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon.&nbsp; At any rate he would
declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a
right to consider himself free, and would bear the
consequences.&nbsp; Such was the resolve which he made on his journey
up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose
up to attack Mr Melmotte single-handed at the Board.

<p>When the Board was over, he also went down to the
Beargarden.&nbsp; Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling
which hurt him most was the conviction that he was spending money
which he would never have had to spend had there been no Board.&nbsp;
He had been twitted with this at the Board-meeting, and had justified
himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the
company of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, which money was now
supposed to have been made over to the railway.&nbsp; But the money
which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion, and he
knew that if called upon for an account, he could hardly make out one
which would be square and intelligible to all parties.&nbsp;
Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the Beargarden, dining
there when no engagement carried him elsewhere.&nbsp; On this evening
he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the young lord's
instigation.&nbsp; "What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?"
said the young lord.

<p>"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves
Directors we ought to know something about it."

<p>"I suppose we ought.&nbsp; I don't know, you know.&nbsp; I'll tell
you what I've been thinking.&nbsp; I can't make out why the mischief
they made me a Director."

<p>"Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly.

<p>"I suppose there's something in that.&nbsp; But what good can I do
them?&nbsp; Nobody thinks that I know anything about business.&nbsp;
Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they
want me to vote.&nbsp; Everybody knows that I'm hard up.&nbsp; I
can't understand it.&nbsp; The Governor said that I was to do it, and
so I've done it."

<p>"They say, you know,&mdash;there's something between you and Melmotte's
daughter."

<p>"But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the
city?&nbsp; And why should Carbury be there?&nbsp; And, heaven and
earth, why should old Grendall be a Director?&nbsp; I'm impecunious;
but if you were to pink out the two most hopeless men in London in
regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury.&nbsp;
I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out."

<p>"I have been thinking about it too," said Paul.

<p>"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" asked Nidderdale.&nbsp;
This was a question which Montague found it difficult to
answer.&nbsp; How could he be justified in whispering suspicions to
the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors for
Marie Melmotte's hand?&nbsp; "You can speak out to me, you know,"
said Nidderdale, nodding his head.

<p>"I've got nothing to speak.&nbsp; People say that he is about the
richest man alive."

<p>"He lives as though he were."

<p>"I don't see why it shouldn't be all true.&nbsp; Nobody, I take
it, knows very much about him."

<p>When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of
it all.&nbsp; It occurred to him that he would "be coming a cropper
rather," were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then
find that she had got none.

<p>A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the
card-room.&nbsp; "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are
there waiting," he said.&nbsp; But Paul declined.&nbsp; He was too
full of his troubles for play.&nbsp; "Poor Miles isn't there, if
you're afraid of that," said Nidderdale.

<p>"Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me," said Montague.

<p>"Nor me either.&nbsp; Of course it's a confounded shame.&nbsp; I
know that as well as anybody.&nbsp; But, God bless me, I owe a fellow
down in Leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and
that's a shame."

<p>"You'll pay him some day."

<p>"I suppose I shall,&mdash;if I don't die first.&nbsp; But I should have
gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been
anything to come;&mdash;only they wouldn't have given me tick, you
know.&nbsp; As far as I'm concerned it's just the same.&nbsp; I like
to live whether I've got money or not.&nbsp; And I fear I don't have
many scruples about paying.&nbsp; But then I like to let live
too.&nbsp; There's Carbury always saying nasty things about poor
Miles.&nbsp; He's playing himself without a rap to back him.&nbsp; If
he were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a &pound;10 note.&nbsp; But
because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte
himself.&nbsp; You'd better come up."

<p>But Montague wouldn't go up.&nbsp; Without any fixed purpose he
left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets
till he found himself in Welbeck Street.&nbsp; He hardly knew why he
went there, and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury
when he left the Beargarden.&nbsp; His mind was full of Mrs
Hurtle.&nbsp; As long as she was present in London,&mdash;as long at any
rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away
from her,&mdash;he knew himself to be an unfit companion for Henrietta
Carbury.&nbsp; And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to
Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta's company, but that for
a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not ask her to be his
wife.&nbsp; It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented
without much attention to words;&mdash;but still it was existing, and Paul
knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept.&nbsp;
Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost
unconsciously knocked at the door.&nbsp; No;&mdash;Lady Carbury was not at
home.&nbsp; She was out somewhere with Mr Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Up to
that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader
may remember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp;
Miss Carbury was at home, the page went on to say.&nbsp; Would Mr
Montague go up and see Miss Carbury?&nbsp; Without much consideration
Mr Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carbury.&nbsp;
"Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta, endeavouring to save herself
from confusion.&nbsp; "There is a soir&eacute;e of learned people somewhere,
and she made poor Roger take her.&nbsp; The ticket was only for her
and her friend, and therefore I could not go."

<p>"I am so glad to see you.&nbsp; What an age it is since we met."

<p>"Hardly since the Melmottes' ball," said Hetta.

<p>"Hardly indeed.&nbsp; I have been here once since that.&nbsp; What
has brought Roger up to town?"

<p>"I don't know what it is.&nbsp; Some mystery, I think.&nbsp;
Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is
something wrong about Felix.&nbsp; I do get so unhappy about Felix,
Mr Montague."

<p>"I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board."

<p>"But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,"&mdash;Paul could not
keep himself from blushing as he heard this,&mdash;"and that Felix should
not be there.&nbsp; And then there is something going on about that
horrid man's daughter."

<p>"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think."

<p>"Is she?&nbsp; They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of
course it is for her money.&nbsp; And I believe that man is
determined to quarrel with them."

<p>"What man, Miss Carbury?"

<p>"Mr Melmotte himself.&nbsp; It's all horrid from beginning to
end."

<p>"But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to b the
greatest friends.&nbsp; When I wanted to see Mr Melmotte he bolted
himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him.&nbsp;
He would not have done that if they had not been friends.&nbsp; When
I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage."

<p>"Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr Melmotte."

<p>"I know he has," said Paul.

<p>"And Roger is always right.&nbsp; It is always safe to trust
him.&nbsp; Don't you think so, Mr Montague?"&nbsp; Paul did think so,
and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which
rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject
difficult.&nbsp; "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued
Hetta, "but I always feel that my cousin Roger is a rock of strength,
so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong.&nbsp;
I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it
of him."

<p>"No one has more reason to praise him than I have."

<p>"I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with
him.&nbsp; And I'll tell you why I think it is.&nbsp; Whenever he
thinks anything he says it;&mdash;or, at least, he never says anything
that he doesn't think.&nbsp; If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody
would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like
that."

<p>"You're thinking of Melmotte."

<p>"I'm thinking of everybody, Mr Montague;&mdash;of everybody except
Roger."

<p>"Is he the only man you can trust?&nbsp; But it is abominable to
me to seem even to contradict you.&nbsp; Roger Carbury has been to me
the best friend that any man ever had.&nbsp; I think as much of him
as you do."

<p>"I didn't say he was the only person;&mdash;or I didn't mean to say
so.&nbsp; But all my friends&mdash;"

<p>"Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I suppose so.&nbsp; Of course you are.&nbsp; Why not?&nbsp;
Of course you are a friend,&mdash;because you are his friend."

<p>"Look here, Hetta," he said.&nbsp; "It is no good going on like
this.&nbsp; I love Roger Carbury,&mdash;as well as one man can love
another.&nbsp; He is all that you say,&mdash;and more.&nbsp; You hardly
know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near
him.&nbsp; He is a gentleman all round and every inch.&nbsp; He never
lies.&nbsp; He never takes what is not his own.&nbsp; I believe he
does love his neighbour as himself."

<p>"Oh, Mr Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like
that."

<p>"I love him better than any man,&mdash;as well as a man can love a
man.&nbsp; If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can
love a man,&mdash;I will leave England at once, and never return to it."

<p>"There's mamma," said Henrietta;&mdash;for at that moment there was a
double knock at the door.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="39"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIX.&nbsp; "I do love him"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>So it was.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had returned home from the
soir&eacute;e of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with
her.&nbsp; They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and
Henrietta together.&nbsp; It need hardly be said that they were both
surprised.&nbsp; Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool,
and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street,
could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now
been planned in the mother's absence.&nbsp; The reader knows that it
was not so.&nbsp; Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion,
but the circumstances in this case were suspicious.&nbsp; There would
have been nothing to suspect,&mdash;no reason why Paul should not have
been there,&mdash;but from the promise which had been given.&nbsp; There
was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in
Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could
hardly have spent the evening together without such breach.&nbsp;
Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the
reader must be left to decide.

<p>Lady Carbury was the first to speak.&nbsp; "This is quite an
unexpected pleasure, Mr Montague."&nbsp; Whether Roger suspected
anything or not, she did.&nbsp; The moment she saw Paul the idea
occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been
preconcerted.

<p>"Yes," he said making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have
been made,&mdash;"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I
would come up and see you."&nbsp; Lady Carbury disbelieved him
altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's
absence had been an accident.&nbsp; The man had said so, and that was
enough.

<p>"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.

<p>"I came back to-day,&mdash;to be present at that Board in the
city.&nbsp; I have had a good deal to trouble me.&nbsp; I will tell
you all about it just now.&nbsp; What has brought you to London?"

<p>"A little business," said Roger.

<p>Then there was an awkward silence.&nbsp; Lady Carbury was angry,
and hardly knew whether she ought not to show her anger.&nbsp; For
Henrietta it was very awkward.&nbsp; She, too, could not but feel
that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than
hers.&nbsp; She knew well her mother's mind, and the way in which her
mother's thoughts would run.&nbsp; Silence was frightful to her, and
she found herself forced to speak.&nbsp; "Have you had a pleasant
evening, mamma?"

<p>"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury,
forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.

<p>"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying
to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to
try to work.&nbsp; I was just going to bed when Mr Montague came
in.&nbsp; What did you think of the wise men and the wise women,
Roger?"

<p>"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked
it."

<p>"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr Palmoil.&nbsp; It seems that if
we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get
everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination
necessary for feeding the human race.&nbsp; Isn't that a grand idea,
Roger?"

<p>"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to."

<p>"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to
believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing.&nbsp; Adam was not
born to labour."

<p>"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr Palmoil will be able to put
his descendants back into Eden."

<p>"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest
things!&nbsp; I have quite made up my mind to this;&mdash;if ever I can
see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the
interior of Africa.&nbsp; It is the garden of the world."

<p>This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate
difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to
get out of the room with fair comfort.&nbsp; As soon as the door was
closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter.&nbsp; "What
brought him here?"

<p>"He brought himself, mamma."

<p>"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta.&nbsp; Of course he brought
himself.&nbsp; That is insolent."

<p>"Insolent, mamma!&nbsp; How can you say such hard words?&nbsp; I
meant that he came of his own accord."

<p>"How long was he here?"

<p>"Two minutes before you came in.&nbsp; Why do you cross-question
me like this?&nbsp; I could not help his coming.&nbsp; I did not
desire that he might be shown up."

<p>"You did not know that he was to come?"

<p>"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."

<p>"What do you mean by that?"

<p>"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so
always.&nbsp; If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as
though you did?&nbsp; I knew nothing of his coming."

<p>"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"

<p>"No;&mdash;I am not."

<p>"Has he asked you to marry him?"

<p>Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this
question.&nbsp; "I do not think he ever has."

<p>"You do not think?"

<p>"I was going on to explain.&nbsp; He never has asked me.&nbsp; But
he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his
wife."

<p>"What has he said?&nbsp; When did he say it?"

<p>Again she paused.&nbsp; But again she answered with
straightforward simplicity.&nbsp; "Just before you came in, he
said&mdash;; I don't know what he said; but it meant that."

<p>"You told me he had been here but a minute."

<p>"It was but very little more.&nbsp; If you take me at my word in
that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma.&nbsp; It
was almost no time, and yet he said it."

<p>"He had come prepared to say it."

<p>"How could he,&mdash;expecting to find you?"

<p>"Psha!&nbsp; He expected nothing of the kind."

<p>"I think you do him wrong, mamma.&nbsp; I am sure you are doing me
wrong.&nbsp; I think his coming was an accident, and that what he
said was&mdash;an accident."

<p>"An accident!"

<p>"It was not intended,&mdash;not then, mamma.&nbsp; I have known it ever
so long;&mdash;and so have you.&nbsp; It was natural that he should say so
when we were alone together."

<p>"And you;&mdash;what did you say?"

<p>"Nothing.&nbsp; You came."

<p>"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune.&nbsp;
But I must ask one other question, Hetta.&nbsp; What do you intend to
say?"&nbsp; Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space.&nbsp;
She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she
thought whether her mother had a right to continue this
cross-examination.&nbsp; She had told her mother everything as it had
happened.&nbsp; She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken,
either now or at any time.&nbsp; But she was not sure that her mother
had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so
little sympathy from her mother.&nbsp; "How do you intend to answer
him?" demanded Lady Carbury.

<p>"I do not know that he will ask again."

<p>"That is prevaricating."

<p>"No, mamma;&mdash;I do not prevaricate.&nbsp; It is unfair to say that
to me.&nbsp; I do love him.&nbsp; There.&nbsp; I think it ought to
have been enough for you to know that I should never give him
encouragement without telling you about it.&nbsp; I do love him, and
I shall never love any one else."

<p>"He is a ruined man.&nbsp; Your cousin says that all this Company
in which he is involved will go to pieces."

<p>Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass.&nbsp; She did
not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but
she did doubt that her mother had believed the story.&nbsp; "If so,"
said she, "Mr Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want
Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."

<p>"It makes me ill to hear you talk,&mdash;as if you understood these
things.&nbsp; And you think you will marry this man because he is to
make a fortune out of the Railway!"&nbsp; Lady Carbury was able to
speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit
by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was
doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.

<p>"I have not thought of his fortune.&nbsp; I have not thought of
marrying him, mamma.&nbsp; I think you are very cruel to me.&nbsp;
You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."

<p>"Why will you not marry your cousin?"

<p>"I am not good enough for him."

<p>"Nonsense!"

<p>"Very well; you say so.&nbsp; But that is what I think.&nbsp; He
is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of
him in that way.&nbsp; And I have told you that I do love some one
else.&nbsp; I have no secret from you now.&nbsp; Good night, mamma,"
she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her.&nbsp; "Do be kind
to me; and pray,&mdash;pray,&mdash;do believe me."&nbsp; Lady Carbury then
allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the
room.

<p>There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and
Paul Montague before they parted.&nbsp; As they walked together to
Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck
Street.&nbsp; Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence
to have been accidental,&mdash;and therefore there was nothing more to be
said.&nbsp; Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey
to London.&nbsp; "I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after
a pause,&mdash;"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta.&nbsp;
A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood.&nbsp; You remember old
Ruggles?"

<p>"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted?&nbsp; She was to have
married John Crumb."

<p>"Just so,&mdash;but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy
frame of mind.&nbsp; John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good
for her."

<p>"Ruby is very pretty.&nbsp; Has she gone with any one?"

<p>"No;&mdash;she went alone.&nbsp; But the horror of it is this.&nbsp;
They think down there that Felix has,&mdash;well, made love to her, and
that she has been taken to London by him."

<p>"That would be very bad."

<p>"He certainly has known her.&nbsp; Though he lied, as he always
lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and
she had been friends down in Suffolk.&nbsp; Of course we know what
such friendship means.&nbsp; But I do not think that she came to
London at his instance.&nbsp; Of course he would lie about
that.&nbsp; He would lie about anything.&nbsp; If his horse cost him
a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and
another two hundred.&nbsp; But he has not lived long enough yet to be
able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye.&nbsp; When he is as
old as I am he'll be perfect."

<p>"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"

<p>"He did not when I first asked him.&nbsp; I am not sure, but I
fancy that I was too quick after her.&nbsp; She started last Saturday
morning.&nbsp; I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his
club.&nbsp; I think that he knew nothing then of her being in
town.&nbsp; He is very clever if he did.&nbsp; Since that he has
avoided me.&nbsp; I caught him once but only for half a minute, and
then he swore that he had not seen her."

<p>"You still believed him?"

<p>"No;&mdash;he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for
me.&nbsp; I cannot say how it may have been.&nbsp; To make matters
worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer
anxious to get back his granddaughter.&nbsp; He was frightened at
first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of
the girl and the saving of his money."

<p>After that Paul told all his own story,&mdash;the double story, both in
regard to Melmotte and to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; As regarded the Railway,
Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his
Liverpool friend.&nbsp; "I never believed in the thing, you know."

<p>"Nor did I.&nbsp; But what could I do?"

<p>"I'm not going to blame you.&nbsp; Indeed, knowing you as I do,
feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment
insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr Ramsbottom
thinks as I do.&nbsp; In such a matter, when a man does not see his
own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has
followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and
recognizes.&nbsp; You have to bind your character to another man's
character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry
you through.&nbsp; From what I hear Mr Ramsbottom's character is
sufficiently good;&mdash;but then you must do exactly what he tells you."

<p>But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague
had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles.&nbsp; What
was he to do about Mrs Hurtle?&nbsp; He had now, for the first time,
to tell his friend that Mrs Hurtle had come to London and that he had
been with her three or four times.&nbsp; There was this great
difficulty in the matter, too,&mdash;that it was very hard to speak of his
engagement with Mrs Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love
for Henrietta Carbury.&nbsp; Roger knew of both loves;&mdash;had been very
urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally
urgent with him to give up the other passion.&nbsp; Were he to marry
the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end.&nbsp; And
yet, in discussing the question of Mrs Hurtle, he was to do so as
though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury.&nbsp;
The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such
person as Henrietta Carbury.&nbsp; Paul told it all,&mdash;the rumoured
duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.

<p>"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas and to
Oregon," said Roger.

<p>"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said
Paul.&nbsp; Roger shrugged his shoulders.&nbsp; He was doubtless
thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing.&nbsp; "And what would
she do, remaining here?" continued Paul.&nbsp; Roger admitted that it
would be awkward.&nbsp; "I am determined that under no circumstances
will I marry her.&nbsp; I know I have been a fool.&nbsp; I know I
have been wrong.&nbsp; But of course, if there be a fair cause for my
broken word, I will use it if I can."

<p>"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out
of it honestly or&mdash;any other way."

<p>"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;&mdash;before we knew as
much as we do now?"

<p>"I did,&mdash;and I do.&nbsp; If you make a bargain with the Devil, it
may be dishonest to cheat him,&mdash;and yet I would have you cheat him if
you could.&nbsp; As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived
you.&nbsp; If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;&mdash;not
though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in
pieces.&nbsp; I'll tell you what I'll do.&nbsp; I'll go and see her
if you like it."

<p>But Paul would not submit to this.&nbsp; He felt he was bound
himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute
could take his place.&nbsp; They sat long into the night, and it was
at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go
to Islington, should tell Mrs Hurtle all the stories which he had
heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no
circumstances would he marry her.&nbsp; They both felt how improbable
it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a
story,&mdash;how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat
would show itself before that time should come.&nbsp; But, still,
that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would
admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws,
husband or no husband,&mdash;whether the duel or the murder was admitted
or denied,&mdash;that he would never make Mrs Hurtle his wife.&nbsp; "I
wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.

<p>"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.

<p>He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning,
and he awoke in the same condition.&nbsp; He had slept well, but as
he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once
overwhelmed him.&nbsp; But the man who is to be hung has no
choice.&nbsp; He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed
his mind, and postpone the hour.&nbsp; It was quite open to Paul
Montague to give himself such instant relief.&nbsp; He put his hand
up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was
aching.&nbsp; This was Saturday.&nbsp; Would it not be as well that
he should think of it further, and put off his execution till
Monday?&nbsp; Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go
to Islington quite comfortably on Monday.&nbsp; Was there not some
hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should
discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady?&nbsp; Should he
not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr
Ramsbottom?&nbsp; Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that
the matter was in his own hands?

<p>At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself
as quickly as he could.&nbsp; He worked himself up into a fit of
fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit
was over.&nbsp; He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked
himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to
Islington.&nbsp; But he remembered that she was always early.&nbsp;
In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some
purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed.&nbsp; If
one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as
soon after waking as possible?&nbsp; I can fancy that the hangman
would hardly come early enough.&nbsp; And if one had to be hung in a
given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the
week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this
world?&nbsp; Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over.&nbsp;
The horror of every agony is in its anticipation.&nbsp; Paul had
realized something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab,
and ordered the man to drive to Islington.

<p>How quick that cab went!&nbsp; Nothing ever goes so quick as a
Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too
early;&mdash;nothing so slow when he starts too late.&nbsp; Of all cabs
this, surely, was the quickest.&nbsp; Paul was lodging in Suffolk
Street, close to Pall Mall&mdash;whence the way to Islington, across
Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares
north-east of the Museum, seems to be long.&nbsp; The end of Goswell
Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is
beyond the end of Goswell Road.&nbsp; And yet that Hansom cab was
there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with
which he would begin the interview.&nbsp; He had given the Street and
the number of the street.&nbsp; It was not till after he had started
that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out
at the end of the street, and walk to the house,&mdash;so that he might,
as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced.&nbsp;
But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to
make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived
before it.&nbsp; There was a little garden before the house.&nbsp; We
all know the garden;&mdash;twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;&mdash;and an
iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate.&nbsp;
Paul, when he had paid the cabman,&mdash;giving the man half-a-crown, and
asking for no change in his agony,&mdash;pushed in the iron gate and
walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before
the door was well opened asked for Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"Mrs Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the
door.&nbsp; "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till
to-night."&nbsp; Providence had sent him a reprieve!&nbsp; But he
almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she
was Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; "Oh laws, Mr Montague, is that you?"&nbsp;
Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognized him
as quickly as he did her.&nbsp; It occurred to her at once that he
had come in search of herself.&nbsp; She knew that Roger Carbury was
up in town looking for her.&nbsp; So much she had of course learned
from Sir Felix,&mdash;for at this time she had seen the baronet more than
once since her arrival.&nbsp; Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's
intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught.&nbsp; In her
terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for
Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"Yes, it is I.&nbsp; I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you
had left your home."

<p>"I'm all right, Mr Montague;&mdash;I am.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin is my aunt,
or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never
would speak to her.&nbsp; She's quite respectable, and has five
children, and lets lodgings.&nbsp; There's a lady here now, and has
gone away with her just for one night down to Southend.&nbsp; They'll
be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant
girl.&nbsp; I'm quite respectable here, Mr Montague, and nobody need
be a bit afraid about me."

<p>"Mrs Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"

<p>"Yes, Mr Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of
air, she said.&nbsp; And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs
Hurtle is such a stranger.&nbsp; And Mrs Hurtle said as she didn't
mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with
them.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no
trouble.&nbsp; And Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;she's most as fond of the baby as
aunt.&nbsp; Do you know Mrs Hurtle, sir?"

<p>"Yes; she's a friend of mine."

<p>"Oh; I didn't know.&nbsp; I did know as there was some friend as
was expected and as didn't come.&nbsp; Be I to say, sir, as you was
here?"

<p>Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask
Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what
message he would leave for Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "I'm afraid they are
very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."

<p>"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr
Montague.&nbsp; Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't
live with him, nor yet I won't try never again.&nbsp; He lugged me
all about the room by my hair, Mr Montague.&nbsp; How is a young
woman to put up with that?&nbsp; And I did everything for him,&mdash;that
careful that no one won't do it again;&mdash;did his linen, and his
victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that
mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl
who had to milk the cows.&nbsp; There wasn't nobody to do anything,
only me.&nbsp; And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my
head.&nbsp; You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr Montague;&mdash;nor
yet won't the Squire."

<p>"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."

<p>"John Crumb!&nbsp; Oh yes, there's John Crumb.&nbsp; There's
plenty of people to give me a home, Mr Montague."

<p>"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."

<p>"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr
Montague.&nbsp; I'm sure you've heard that before.&nbsp; Grandfather
made me say I'd have him,&mdash;but I never cared that for him."

<p>"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in
London."

<p>"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr Montague; I can tell you
that.&nbsp; They has to look at me, if they want me.&nbsp; But I am
looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to
touch."&nbsp; That told the whole story.&nbsp; Paul when he heard the
little boast was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well
founded.&nbsp; And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix,
Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on
that matter.&nbsp; "But there's Betsy a-crying upstairs, and I
promised not to leave them children for one minute."

<p>"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."

<p>"What does the Squire want o' me?&nbsp; I ain't nothing to the
Squire,&mdash;except that I respects him.&nbsp; You can tell if you
please, Mr Montague, of course.&nbsp; I'm a coming, my darling."

<p>Paul made his way into Mrs Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note
for her in pencil.&nbsp; He had come, he said, immediately on his
return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for
the day.&nbsp; When should he call again?&nbsp; If she would make an
appointment he would attend to it.&nbsp; He felt as he wrote this
that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the
morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the
suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil.&nbsp; At any
rate it would certainly give him another day.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle would
not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was
Sunday there would be no delivery by post.&nbsp; When the note was
finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that
he was going.&nbsp; "Mr Montague," she said in a confidential
whisper, as she tripped clown the stairs, "I don't see why you need
be saying anything about me, you know."

<p>"Mr Carbury is up in town looking after you."

<p>"What am I to Mr Carbury?"

<p>"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."

<p>"Not a bit of it, Mr Montague.&nbsp; Grandfather knows very well
where I am.&nbsp; There!&nbsp; Grandfather doesn't want me back, and
I ain't a going.&nbsp; Why should the Squire bother himself about
me?&nbsp; I don't bother myself about him."

<p>"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a
young man who is not trustworthy."

<p>"I can mind myself very well, Mr Montague."

<p>"Tell me this.&nbsp; Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've
been in town?"&nbsp; Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now
flushed up to her forehead.&nbsp; "You may be sure that he means no
good to you.&nbsp; What can come of an intimacy between you and such
a one as he?"

<p>"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr Montague, as well
as you.&nbsp; Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much
obliged."

<p>"But I must tell Mr Carbury."

<p>"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the
door.

<p>Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of
Ruby's reproach to him.&nbsp; What business had he to take upon
himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of
love;&mdash;he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs Hurtle, and who the
evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta
Carbury?

<p>In regard to Mrs Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for
two days;&mdash;but it did not make him happy or even comfortable.&nbsp;
As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better
for him to have had the interview over.&nbsp; But, at any rate, he
could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to
her.&nbsp; Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her
mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs
Hurtle.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="40"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XL.&nbsp; "Unanimity is the very soul of these things"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a
note from Mr Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger
from the city,&mdash;who had expected to have an immediate answer, as
though Montague lived at the club.

<p>"DEAR SIR," said the letter,

<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If not inconvenient would you call on
me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven.&nbsp;
If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in
the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best.&nbsp; I want to
have a few words with you in private about the Company.&nbsp; My
messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours truly,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.<br>
<br>
PAUL MONTAGUE, Esq.,<br>
The Beargarden.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor
Square at the hour appointed,&mdash;abandoning any intentions which he
might have had in reference to Sunday morning service.&nbsp; But this
was not the only letter he received that evening.&nbsp; On his return
to his lodgings, he found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs
Hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from
Southend.&nbsp; "I am sorry to have been away.&nbsp; I will expect
you all to-morrow.&nbsp; W. H."&nbsp; The period of the reprieve was
thus curtailed to less than a day.

<p>On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to
Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say
to him.&nbsp; The great man had declared himself very plainly in the
Board-room,&mdash;especially plainly after the Board had risen.&nbsp; Paul
had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he
was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such
strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great
master of financial tactics.&nbsp; He was prepared to go to the wall
in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save
his character and keep the reputation of an honest man.&nbsp; He was
quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr Ramsbottom, and intended
to ask Mr Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be
fitting for him to publish.&nbsp; But it was manifest now that Mr
Melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he
should have Mr Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.

<p>He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had
contented himself after that with leaving a card.&nbsp; He had heard
much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush
and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice
with Hetta Carbury.&nbsp; When he was shown into the hail he was
astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of
planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar.&nbsp; The preparations
for the great dinner had been already commenced.&nbsp; Through all
this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room
on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr Melmotte
would come to him.&nbsp; Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking
out into the yard at the back.&nbsp; There was not a book in the
room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself.&nbsp; He
was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be
best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with
slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown,
bustled into the room.&nbsp; "My dear sir, I am so sorry.&nbsp; You
are a punctual man, I see.&nbsp; So am I.&nbsp; A man of business
should be punctual.&nbsp; But they ain't always.&nbsp;
Brehgert,&mdash;from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you
know,&mdash;has just been with me.&nbsp; We had to settle something about
the Moldavian loan.&nbsp; He came a quarter late, and of course he
went a quarter late.&nbsp; And how is a man to catch a quarter of an
hour?&nbsp; I never could do it."&nbsp; Montague assured the great
man that the delay was of no consequence.&nbsp; "And I am so sorry to
ask you into such a place as this.&nbsp; I had Brehgert in my room
downstairs, and then the house is so knocked about!&nbsp; We get into
a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow.&nbsp;
Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the
dinner is over.&nbsp; By-the by, Montague, if you'd like to come to
the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have.&nbsp; You know how
they're run after."&nbsp; Montague had heard of the dinner, but had
perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the
west end of London.&nbsp; He did not in the least want to be at the
dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary
civility from Mr Melmotte's hands.

<p>But he was very anxious to know why Mr Melmotte should offer
it.&nbsp; He excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond
of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other
people.&nbsp; "Ah, indeed," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "There are ever so
many people of title would give anything for a ticket.&nbsp; You'd be
astonished at the persons who have asked.&nbsp; We've had to squeeze
in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on the
other for the Bishop of&mdash;; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the
two archbishops before.&nbsp; They say he must come because he has
something to do with getting up the missionaries for Tibet.&nbsp; But
I've got the ticket, if you'll have it."&nbsp; This was the ticket
which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the
Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it might be useful
to him as a bribe.&nbsp; But Paul would not take the bribe.&nbsp;
"You're the only man in London, then," said Melmotte, somewhat
offended.&nbsp; "But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll
have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you."&nbsp; Paul not
knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening.&nbsp;
"I am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to those who
are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country,
your name stands first,&mdash;next to my own."

<p>Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it
could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a
Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same
house a fortnight later.&nbsp; But that was impossible.&nbsp; "Have
you anything special to say about the Railway?" he asked.

<p>"Well, yes.&nbsp; It is so hard to get things said at the
Board.&nbsp; Of course there are some there who do not understand
matters."

<p>"I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this
matter," said Paul.

<p>Melmotte affected to laugh.&nbsp; "Well, well; I am not prepared
to go quite so far as that.&nbsp; My friend Cohenlupe has had great
experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is
in Parliament.&nbsp; And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than
perhaps you give him credit for."

<p>"He may easily do that."

<p>"Well, well.&nbsp; Perhaps you don't know quite as well as I
do."&nbsp; The scowl began to appear on Mr Melmotte's brow.&nbsp;
Hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish
it.&nbsp; "What I wanted to say to you was this.&nbsp; We didn't
quite agree at the last meeting."

<p>"No; we did not."

<p>"I was very sorry for it.&nbsp; Unanimity is everything in the
direction of such an undertaking as this.&nbsp; With unanimity we can
do&mdash;everything."&nbsp; Mr Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm
lifted up both his hands over his head.&nbsp; "Without unanimity we
can do&mdash;nothing."&nbsp; And the two hands fell.&nbsp; "Unanimity
should be printed everywhere about a Board-room.&nbsp; It should,
indeed, Mr Montague."

<p>"But suppose the directors are not unanimous."

<p>"They should be unanimous.&nbsp; They should make themselves
unanimous.&nbsp; God bless my soul!&nbsp; You don't want to see the
thing fall to pieces!"

<p>"Not if it can be carried on honestly."

<p>"Honestly!&nbsp; Who says that anything is dishonest?"&nbsp; Again
the brow became very heavy.&nbsp; "Look here, Mr Montague.&nbsp; If
you and I quarrel in the Board-room, there is no knowing the amount
of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the
Company.&nbsp; I find the responsibility on my shoulders so great
that I say the thing must be stopped.&nbsp; Damme, Mr Montague, it
must be stopped.&nbsp; We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr
Montague.&nbsp; We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for
a mere chimera.&nbsp; I've known a fine property blasted, Mr
Montague, sent straight to the dogs,&mdash;annihilated, sir;&mdash;so that it
all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting
were sent out to starve about the streets,&mdash;just because one director
sat in another director's chair.&nbsp; I did, by G&mdash;!&nbsp; What do
you think of that, Mr Montague?&nbsp; Gentlemen who don't know the
nature of credit, how strong it is,&mdash;as the air,&mdash;to buoy you up; how
slight it is,&mdash;as a mere vapour,&mdash;when roughly touched, can do an
amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least
understand the extent!&nbsp; What is it you want, Mr Montague?"

<p>"What do I want?"&nbsp; Melmotte's description of the peculiar
susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given
without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself
almost drove that effect out of his mind.&nbsp; "I only want
justice."

<p>"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the
expense of other people.&nbsp; Look here, Mr Montague.&nbsp; I
suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter.&nbsp; You want
to make money out of it."

<p>"For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all.&nbsp;
But I am not thinking of myself."

<p>"You are getting very good interest.&nbsp; If I understand the
matter," and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby
how careful he was in mastering details,&mdash;"you had about &pound;6,000
embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm.&nbsp; You
imagine yourself to have that still."

<p>"I don't know what I've got."

<p>"I can tell you then.&nbsp; You have that, and you've drawn nearly
a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or
another.&nbsp; That's not bad interest on your money."

<p>"There was back interest due to me."

<p>"If so, it's due still.&nbsp; I've nothing to do with that.&nbsp;
Look here, Mr Montague.&nbsp; I am most anxious that you should
remain with us.&nbsp; I was about to propose, only for that little
rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time
on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to
Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company.&nbsp;
Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the
thing I should like.&nbsp; Of course you'd go at the Company's
expense.&nbsp; I would see to your own personal interests while you
were away;&mdash;or you could appoint any one by power of attorney.&nbsp;
Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything
occur amiss,&mdash;which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I
know,&mdash;of course you, as absent, would not share the
responsibility.&nbsp; That's what I was thinking.&nbsp; It would be a
delightful trip;&mdash;but if you don't like it, you can of course remain
at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me.&nbsp; Indeed, after a
bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;&mdash;and I must
do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it.&nbsp;
But,&mdash;if it is to be that way,&mdash;do be unanimous.&nbsp; Unanimity is
the very soul of these things;&mdash;the very soul, Mr Montague."

<p>"But if I can't be unanimous?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going
out;&mdash;which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful.&nbsp;
It might be the very making of the railway;&mdash;then I can only suggest
that you should take your &pound;6,000 and leave us.&nbsp; I, myself,
should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I
will see that you have your money.&nbsp; I will make myself
personally responsible for the payment of it,&mdash;some time before the
end of the year."

<p>Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole
matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day.&nbsp;
"And now, good-bye," said Mr Melmotte, as he bade his young friend
adieu in a hurry.&nbsp; "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory
Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting downstairs."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="41"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLI.&nbsp; All Prepared</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with
her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his
sincerity.&nbsp; She had not only assured him of her undying
affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only
offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written
to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within
her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over
her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her
lover.&nbsp; She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover,
and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours
conferred upon him.&nbsp; But, nevertheless, she was true to her
lover, and believed that he was true to her.&nbsp; Didon had been
hitherto faithful.&nbsp; Marie had written various letters to Sir
Felix and had received two or three very short notes in reply,
containing hardly more than a word or two each.&nbsp; But now she was
told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord
Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready.&nbsp; She was
to be married in the middle of August, and here they were,
approaching the end of June.&nbsp; "You may buy what you like,
mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose
they'll do.&nbsp; But they'll never be of any use about Lord
Nidderdale.&nbsp; If you were to sew me up in the things by main
force, I wouldn't have him."&nbsp; Madame Melmotte groaned, and
scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were
dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a
dog.&nbsp; And, ended, as she always did end, by swearing that
Melmotte must manage the matter himself.&nbsp; "Nobody shall manage
this matter for me," said Marie.&nbsp; "I know what I'm about now,
and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa."&nbsp;
"Que nous &eacute;tions encore &agrave; Frankfort, ou New-York," said
the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of
her earlier life.&nbsp; Marie did not care for Frankfort or New York;
for Paris or for London;&mdash;but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.

<p>While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his
own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the
city,&mdash;though it may be doubted whether that very respectable
gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his
name was mentioned,&mdash;Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was
also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there
also close alongside of her.&nbsp; Marie had the key of the gardens
for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the
square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday
morning.&nbsp; Her lover's letter to her father had of course been
shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately.&nbsp; Sir
Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck
Street to keep his appointment,&mdash;having been assured by Didon that
the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to
close it after he had come in,&mdash;was of course ready with a lie.&nbsp;
"It was the only thing to do, Marie;&mdash;it was indeed."

<p>"But you said you had accepted some offer."

<p>"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?"

<p>"It was your handwriting, Felix."

<p>"Of course it was.&nbsp; I copied just what he put down.&nbsp;
He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I
hadn't written it."

<p>"And you have accepted nothing?"

<p>"Not at all.&nbsp; As it is, he owes me money.&nbsp; Is not that
odd?&nbsp; I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't
got anything from him yet."&nbsp; Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the
cheque for &pound;200.

<p>"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant
daughter.

<p>"Don't they?&nbsp; Dear me!&nbsp; But I just wrote it because I
thought anything better than a downright quarrel."

<p>"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."

<p>"It's no good scolding, Marie.&nbsp; I did it for the best.&nbsp;
What do you think we'd best do now?"&nbsp; Marie looked at him,
almost with scorn.&nbsp; Surely it was for him to propose and for her
to yield.&nbsp; "I wonder whether you're right about that money which
you say is settled."

<p>"I'm quite sure.&nbsp; Mamma told me in Paris,&mdash;just when we were
coming away,&mdash;that it was done so that there might be something if
things went wrong.&nbsp; And papa told me that he should want me to
sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would.&nbsp;
But of course I won't,&mdash;if I should have a husband of my own."&nbsp;
Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his
trousers pockets.&nbsp; He entertained those very fears which had
latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; There would be no
"cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper
were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to
have a shilling!&nbsp; And, were he now to run off with Marie, after
having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive
him.&nbsp; This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too
doubtful!&nbsp; The game to be played was too full of danger!&nbsp;
And in that case he would certainly get neither his &pound;800, nor the
shares.&nbsp; And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would
probably supply him with ready money.&nbsp; But then there was the
girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that
he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he
intended to stick to his engagement.&nbsp; Some half promise would be
the only escape for the present.&nbsp; "What are you thinking of,
Felix?" she asked.

<p>"It's d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; difficult to know what to do."

<p>"But you do love me?"

<p>"Of course I do.&nbsp; If I didn't love you why should I be here
walking round this stupid place?&nbsp; They talk of your being
married to Nidderdale about the end of August."

<p>"Some day in August.&nbsp; But that's all nonsense, you
know.&nbsp; They can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do
the girls ever so long ago.&nbsp; I won't marry him.&nbsp; He don't
care a bit for me, and never did.&nbsp; I don't think you care much,
Felix."

<p>"Yes, I do.&nbsp; A fellow can't go on saying so over and over
again in a beastly place like this.&nbsp; If we were anywhere jolly
together, then I could say it often enough."

<p>"I wish we were, Felix.&nbsp; I wonder whether we ever shall be."

<p>"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."

<p>"You're not going to give it up!"

<p>"Oh no;&mdash;not give it up; certainly not.&nbsp; But the bother is a
fellow doesn't know what to do."

<p>"You've heard of young Mr Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested
Marie.

<p>"He's one of those city chaps."

<p>"And Lady Julia Start?"

<p>"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter.&nbsp; Yes; I've heard of
them.&nbsp; They got spliced last winter."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;somewhere in Switzerland, I think.&nbsp; At any rate they
went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert
Gate."

<p>"How jolly for them!&nbsp; He is awfully rich, isn't he?"

<p>"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa.&nbsp; They did all
they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone
just as the tidal boat was starting.&nbsp; Didon says that nothing
was easier."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;ah.&nbsp; Didon knows all about it."

<p>"That she does."

<p>"But she'd lose her place."

<p>"There are plenty of places.&nbsp; She could come and live with
us, and be my maid.&nbsp; If you would give her &pound;50 for herself,
she'd arrange it all."

<p>"And would you come to Folkstone?"

<p>"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that.&nbsp;
We should make it a little different.&nbsp; If you liked I wouldn't
mind going to&mdash;New York.&nbsp; And then, perhaps, we
might&mdash;get&mdash;married, you know, on board.&nbsp; That's what Didon
thinks."

<p>"And would Didon go too?"

<p>"That's what she proposes.&nbsp; She could go as my aunt, and I'd
call myself by her name,&mdash;any French name you know.&nbsp; I should go
as a French girl.&nbsp; And you could call yourself Smith, and be an
American.&nbsp; We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just
at the last moment.&nbsp; If they wouldn't&mdash;marry us on board, they
would at New York, instantly."

<p>"That's Didon's plan?"

<p>"That's what she thinks best,&mdash;and she'll do it, if you'll give
her &pound;50 for herself, you know.&nbsp; The 'Adriatic,'&mdash;that's a White
Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon.&nbsp; There's an early
train that would take us down that morning.&nbsp; You had better go
and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we
meet on board.&nbsp; We could be back in a month,&mdash;and then papa
would be obliged to make the best of it."

<p>Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for
him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for
advice as to the best means of carrying off his love.&nbsp; The
young lady had it all at her fingers' ends,&mdash;even to the amount of
the fee required by the female counsellor.&nbsp; But Thursday week
was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined
proportions.&nbsp; Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve
that he would do this thing?&nbsp; He had been fool enough to
intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when
Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release
it.&nbsp; And he had nothing to show;&mdash;no security that he could
offer to Vossner.&nbsp; And then,&mdash;this idea of starting to New York
with Melmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to
Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.

<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
    "There is a tide in the affairs of men,<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
     Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune."<br>

<p>Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by
them came home to him at this moment.&nbsp; Now was the tide in his
affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar
himself.&nbsp; "It's deuced important," he said at last with a
groan.

<p>"It's not more important for you than me," said Marie.

<p>"If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round,
where should we be then?"

<p>"Nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress.

<p>"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get
nothing after all."

<p>"You'd get me," said Marie with a pout.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;and I'm awfully fond of you.&nbsp; Of course I should get
you!&nbsp; But&mdash;"

<p>"Very well then;&mdash;if that's your love, said Marie turning back
from him.

<p>Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his
resolution.&nbsp; "I'll venture it."

<p>"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!"

<p>"There's a great deal to do, you know.&nbsp; I don't know
whether it can be Thursday week."&nbsp; He was putting in the
coward's plea for a reprieve.

<p>"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long."

<p>"There's the money to get, and all that."

<p>"I can get some money.&nbsp; Mamma has money in the house."

<p>"How much?" asked the baronet eagerly.

<p>"A hundred pounds, perhaps;&mdash;perhaps two hundred."

<p>"That would help certainly.&nbsp; I must go to your father for
money.&nbsp; Won't that be a sell?&nbsp; To get it from him, to
take you away!"

<p>It was decided that they were to go to New York on a
Thursday,&mdash;on Thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to
let her know in a day or two.&nbsp; Didon was to pack up the
clothes and get them sent out of the house.&nbsp; Didon was to have
&pound;50 before she went on board; and as one of the men must know about
it, and must assist in having the trunks smuggled out of the house,
he was to have &pound;10.&nbsp; All had been settled beforehand, so that
Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything.&nbsp; "And
now," said Marie, "there's Didon.&nbsp; Nobody's looking and she
can open that gate for you.&nbsp; When we're gone, do you creep
out.&nbsp; The gate can be left, you know.&nbsp; Then we'll get out
on the other side."&nbsp; Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever
girl.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="42"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLII.&nbsp; "Can You Be Ready in Ten Minutes?"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>After leaving Melmotte's house, on Sunday morning Paul Montague,
went to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning
from church.&nbsp; He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but
had made up his mind that he would defer his visit till the
evening.&nbsp; He would dine early and be with Mrs Hurtle about seven
o'clock.&nbsp; But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news
about Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; "It's not so bad as you thought," said he,
"as she is living with her aunt."

<p>"I never heard of such an aunt."

<p>"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't
want her back again."

<p>"Does she see Felix Carbury?"

<p>"I think she does," said Paul.

<p>"Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not.&nbsp;
I'll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay."

<p>"Why not send for John Crumb?"

<p>Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "He'd give Felix
such a thrashing as no man ever had before.&nbsp; My cousin deserves
it as well as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are
reasons why I should not like it.&nbsp; And he could not force her
back with him.&nbsp; I don't suppose the girl is all bad,&mdash;if she
could see the truth."

<p>"I don't think she's bad at all."

<p>"At any rate I'll go and see her," said Roger.&nbsp; "Perhaps I
shall see your widow at the same time."&nbsp; Paul sighed, but said
nothing more about his widow at that moment.&nbsp; "I'll walk up to
Welbeck Street now," said Roger, taking his hat.&nbsp; "Perhaps I
shall see you to-morrow."&nbsp; Paul felt that he could not go to
Welbeck Street with his friend.

<p>He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that
journey to Islington in a cab.&nbsp; As he went he thought of the
proposal that had been made to him by Melmotte.&nbsp; If he could do
it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe
in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to
him.&nbsp; He had said already more than he had intended to say to
Hetta Carbury; and though he was by no means disposed to flatter
himself, yet he almost thought that what he had said had been well
received.&nbsp; At the moment they had been disturbed, but she, as
she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed
no anger.&nbsp; He had almost been betrayed into breaking a
promise.&nbsp; Were he to start now on this journey, the period of
the promise would have passed by before his return.&nbsp; Of course
he would take care that she should know that he had gone in the
performance of a duty.&nbsp; And then he would escape from Mrs
Hurtle, and would be able to make those inquiries which had been
suggested to him.&nbsp; It was possible that Mrs Hurtle should offer
to go with him,&mdash;an arrangement which would not at all suit him.

<p>That at any rate must be avoided.&nbsp; But then how could he do
this without a belief in the railway generally?&nbsp; And how was it
possible that he should have such belief?&nbsp; Mr Ramsbottom did not
believe in it, nor did Roger Carbury.&nbsp; He himself did not in the
least believe in Fisker, and Fisker had originated the railway.&nbsp;
Then, would it not be best that he should take the Chairman's offer
as to his own money?&nbsp; If he could get his &pound;6,000 back and
have done with the railway, he would certainly think himself a lucky
man.&nbsp; But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay
aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he could put
implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guarantee for the amount.&nbsp;
This at any rate was clear to him,&mdash;that Melmotte was very anxious to
secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.

<p>Now he was again at Mrs Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by
Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the
things he had to say.&nbsp; "The ladies have come back from Southend,
Miss Ruggles?"

<p>"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs Hurtle is expecting you all the day."&nbsp;
Then she put in a whisper on her own account.&nbsp; "You didn't tell
him as you'd seen me, Mr Montague?"

<p>"Indeed I did, Miss Ruggles."

<p>"Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been
ill-natured,&mdash;that's all," said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs
Hurtle's room.

<p>Mrs Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,&mdash;and her
smile could be very sweet.&nbsp; She was a witch of a woman, and, as
like most witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she
could charm.&nbsp; "Only fancy," she said, "that you should have come
the only day I have been two hundred yards from the house, except
that evening when you took me to the play.&nbsp; I was so sorry."

<p>"Why should you be sorry?&nbsp; It is easy to come again."

<p>"Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day.&nbsp; But I
wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs Pipkin
took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend.&nbsp;
She was dying to go herself.&nbsp; She declared that Southend was
Paradise."

<p>"A cockney Paradise."

<p>"Oh, what a place it is!&nbsp; Do your people really go to
Southend and fancy that that is the sea?"

<p>"I believe they do.&nbsp; I never went to Southend myself,&mdash;so
that you know more about it than I do."

<p>"How very English it is a little yellow river and you call it the sea!&nbsp;
Ah you never were at Newport!"

<p>"But I've been at San Francisco."

<p>"Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals
howling.&nbsp; Well; that's better than Southend."

<p>"I suppose we do have the sea here in England.&nbsp; It's
generally supposed we're an island."

<p>"Of course;&mdash;but things are so small.&nbsp; If you choose to go
to the west of Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic.&nbsp;
But nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered."&nbsp;
Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, but said
nothing;&mdash;thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and remembered
that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregon or the
west of Ireland.&nbsp; "But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs Pipkin
and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it.&nbsp; She was so
afraid that the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so
much the best of it.&nbsp; And then we ate shrimps, and she was so
humble.&nbsp; You must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so
humble.&nbsp; Of course I paid.&nbsp; She has got all her children,
and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings.&nbsp;
People are just as poor with us;&mdash;and other people who happen to be
a little better off, pay for them.&nbsp; But nobody is humble to
another, as you are here.&nbsp; Of course we like to have money as
well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference."

<p>"He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself
as agreeable as he can to him who can give."

<p>"But Mrs Pipkin was so humble.&nbsp; However, we got back all
right yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been
here,&mdash;at last."

<p>"You knew that I had to go to Liverpool."

<p>"I'm not going to scold.&nbsp; Did you get your business done at
Liverpool?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;one generally gets something done, but never anything very
satisfactorily.&nbsp; Of course it's about this railway."

<p>"I should have thought that that was satisfactory.&nbsp;
Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever
invented.&nbsp; I wish I was a man that I might be concerned with a
really great thing like that.&nbsp; I hate little peddling
things.&nbsp; I should like to manage the greatest bank in the
world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the
largest railway.&nbsp; It would be better even than being President
of a Republic, because one would have more of one's own way.&nbsp;
What is it that you do in it, Paul?"

<p>"They want me now to go out to Mexico about it," said he slowly.

<p>"Shall you go?" said she, throwing herself forward and asking
the question with manifest anxiety.

<p>"I think not."

<p>"Why not?&nbsp; Do go.&nbsp; Oh, Paul, I would go with
you.&nbsp; Why should you not go?&nbsp; It is just the thing for
such a one as you to do.&nbsp; The railway will make Mexico a new
country, and then you would be the man who had done it.&nbsp; Why
should you throw away such a chance as that?&nbsp; It will never
come again.&nbsp; Emperors and kings have tried their hands at
Mexico and have been able to do nothing.&nbsp; Emperors and kings
never can do anything.&nbsp; Think what it would be to be the
regenerator of Mexico!"

<p>"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the
means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there
merely that one might be out of the way"

<p>"I would make the means of doing something."

<p>"Means are money.&nbsp; How can I make that?"

<p>"There is money going.&nbsp; There must be money where there is
all this buying and selling of shares.&nbsp; Where does your uncle
get the money with which he is living like a prince at San
Francisco?&nbsp; Where does Fisker get the money with which he is
speculating in New York?&nbsp; Where does Melmotte get the money
which makes him the richest man in the world?&nbsp; Why should not
you get it as well as the others?"

<p>"If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do
it."

<p>"Why should it be robbery?&nbsp; I do not want you to live in a
palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself.&nbsp; But I want
you to have ambition.&nbsp; Go to Mexico, and chance it.&nbsp; Take
San Francisco in your way, and get across the country.&nbsp; I will
go every yard with you.&nbsp; Make people there believe that you
are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money."

<p>He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject
which he should have to discuss before he left her,&mdash;or rather the
statement which he had resolved that he would make.&nbsp; Indeed
every word which he allowed her to say respecting this Mexican
project carried him farther away from it.&nbsp; He was giving
reasons why the journey should not be made; but was tacitly
admitting that if it were to be made she might be one of the
travellers.&nbsp; The very offer on her part implied an
understanding that his former abnegation of the engagement had been
withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a
sideway fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship
either for the purpose of such a journey or for any other
purpose.&nbsp; The thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must
be introduced on its own basis.&nbsp; But such preliminary
conversation as this made the introduction of it infinitely more
difficult.

<p>"You are not in a hurry?" she said.

<p>"Oh no."

<p>"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good
man?&nbsp; Then I'll ask them to let us have tea."&nbsp; She rang
the bell and Ruby came in, and the tea was ordered.&nbsp; "That
young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers."

<p>"I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to
find her here yesterday."

<p>"There's some lover, isn't there;&mdash;some would-be husband whom she
does not like?"

<p>"And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like."

<p>"That's quite of course, if the other is true.&nbsp; Miss Ruby
isn't the girl to have come to her time of life without a
preference.&nbsp; The natural liking of a young woman for a man in
a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has
better parts of speech,&mdash;just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a
dog at all,&mdash;is one of the evils of the inequality of
mankind.&nbsp; The girl is content with the love without having the
love justified, because the object is more desirable.&nbsp; She can
only have her love justified with an object less desirable.&nbsp;
If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil
of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come
to an end.&nbsp; A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy
and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong
would be at an end."

<p>"If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they
would wear different coats the next day."

<p>"Slightly different.&nbsp; But there would be no more purple and
fine linen, and no more blue woad.&nbsp; It isn't to be done in a
day of course, nor yet in a century,&mdash;nor in a decade of centuries;
but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his
efforts should be made in that direction.&nbsp; I remember; you
never take sugar; give me that."

<p>Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting
questions of women's difficulties and immediate or progressive
equality.&nbsp; But having got on to these rocks,&mdash;having, as the
reader may perceive, been taken on to them wilfully by the skill of
the woman,&mdash;he did not know how to get his bark out again into clear
waters.&nbsp; But having his own subject before him, with all its
dangers, the wild-cat's claws, and the possible fate of the
gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freely on the subjects which
she introduced, as had been his wont in former years.&nbsp;
"Thanks," he said, changing his cup.&nbsp; "How well you remember!"

<p>"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and
dislikings?&nbsp; Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf
of mine, that I should never wear blue?"

<p>She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so
that he was obliged to speak.&nbsp; "Of course I do.&nbsp; Black is
your colour;&mdash;black and grey; or white,&mdash;and perhaps yellow when you
choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly.&nbsp; But not blue or
green."

<p>"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word
for gospel.&nbsp; It is very good to have an eye for such
things,&mdash;as you have, Paul.&nbsp; But I fancy that taste comes
with, or at any rate forebodes, an effete civilization."

<p>"I am sorry that mine should be effete," he said smiling.

<p>"You know what I mean, Paul.&nbsp; I speak of nations, not
individuals.&nbsp; Civilization was becoming effete, or at any rate
men were, in the time of the great painters; but Savonarola and
Galileo were individuals.&nbsp; You should throw your lot in with a
new people.&nbsp; This railway to Mexico gives you the chance."

<p>"Are the Mexicans a new people?"

<p>"They who will rule the Mexicans are.&nbsp; All American women I
dare say have bad taste in gowns,&mdash;and so the vain ones and rich
ones send to Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men
is generally good.&nbsp; We like our philosophers; we like our
poets; we like our genuine workmen;&mdash;but we love our heroes.&nbsp;
I would have you a hero, Paul."&nbsp; He got up from his chair and
walked about the room in an agony of despair.&nbsp; To be told that
he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his life in
which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up to
cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be
endured!&nbsp; And yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,&mdash;even
though he were willing to devote himself certainly and instantly to
the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,&mdash;could he
immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered
as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant,
most tragic matter!&nbsp; It was the unfitness that deterred him
and not the possible tragedy.&nbsp; Nevertheless, through it all,
he was sure,&mdash;nearly sure,&mdash;that she was playing her game, and
playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he
wanted to play.&nbsp; Would it not be better that he should go away
and write another letter?&nbsp; In a letter he could at any rate
say what he had to say;&mdash;and having said it he would then strengthen
himself to adhere to it.

<p>"What makes you so uneasy?" she asked; still speaking in her
most winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice.&nbsp;
"Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?"

<p>"Winifred," he said, "I came here with a purpose, and I had
better carry it out."

<p>"What purpose?"&nbsp; She still leaned forward, but now
supported her face on her two hands, with her elbows resting on her
knees, looking at him intently.&nbsp; But one would have said that
there was only love in her eyes;&mdash;love which might be disappointed,
but still love.&nbsp; The wild cat, if there, was all within, still
hidden from sight.&nbsp; Paul stood with his hands on the back of a
chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the
occasion.&nbsp; "Stop, my dear," she said.&nbsp; "Must the purpose
be told to-night?"

<p>"Why not to-night?"

<p>"Paul, I am not well;&mdash;I am weak now.&nbsp; I am a coward.&nbsp;
You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant
talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks.&nbsp;
Mrs Pipkin is not very charming.&nbsp; Even her baby cannot supply
all the social wants of my life.&nbsp; I had intended that
everything should be sweet to-night.&nbsp; Oh, Paul, if it was your
purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my
dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with
pleasure of those that are past,&mdash;then carry out your purpose.&nbsp;
But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak
daggers;&mdash;then drop your purpose for to-night.&nbsp; Try and think
what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of
comfort."

<p>Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have
that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him.&nbsp;
"I will not harass you, if you are ill," he said.

<p>"I am ill.&nbsp; It was because I was afraid that I should be
really ill that I went to Southend.&nbsp; The weather is hot,
though of course the sun here is not as we have it.&nbsp; But the
air is heavy,&mdash;what Mrs Pipkin calls muggy.&nbsp; I was thinking if
I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good.&nbsp; Where
had I better go?"&nbsp; Paul suggested Brighton.&nbsp; "That is
full of people; is it not?&mdash;a fashionable place?"

<p>"Not at this time of the year."

<p>"But it is a big place.&nbsp; I want some little place that
would be pretty.&nbsp; You could take me down; could you not?&nbsp;
Not very far, you know;&mdash;not that any place can be very far from
here."&nbsp; Paul, in his John Bull displeasure, suggested
Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four
hours.&nbsp; "Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima
Thule;&mdash;not Penzance, nor yet Orkney.&nbsp; Is there no other place
except Southend?"

<p>"There is Cromer in Norfolk,&mdash;perhaps ten hours."

<p>"Is Cromer by the sea?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;what we call the sea."

<p>"I mean really the sea, Paul?"

<p>"If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would
perhaps take you across to Holland.&nbsp; A ditch of that kind
wouldn't do perhaps."

<p>"Ah,&mdash;now I see you are laughing at me.&nbsp; Is Cromer pretty?"

<p>"Well, yes;&mdash;I think it is.&nbsp; I was there once, but I don't
remember much. There's Ramsgate."

<p>"Mrs Pipkin told me of Ramsgate.&nbsp; I don't think I should
like Ramsgate."

<p>"There's the Isle of Wight.&nbsp; The Isle of Wight is very
pretty."

<p>"That's the Queen's place.&nbsp; There would not be room for her
and me too."

<p>"Or Lowestoft.&nbsp; Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and
there is a railway all the distance."

<p>"And sea?"

<p>"Sea enough for anything.&nbsp; If you can't see across it, and
if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and
shipwrecks every other day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't
as good as a thousand."

<p>"A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand.&nbsp; But, Paul,
at Southend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of
the river.&nbsp; You must admit that.&nbsp; But you will be a
better guide than Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; You would not have taken me to
Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;&mdash;would you?&nbsp; Let
it be Lowestoft.&nbsp; Is there an hotel?"

<p>"A small little place."

<p>"Very small? uncomfortably small?&nbsp; But almost any place
would do for me."

<p>"They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the
States it would be very small."

<p>"Paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this
humour, "if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve
you right.&nbsp; This is all because I did not lose myself in awe
at the sight of the Southend ocean.&nbsp; It shall be
Lowestoft."&nbsp; Then she rose up and came to him, and took his
arm.&nbsp; "You will take me down, will you not?&nbsp; It is
desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone.&nbsp; I
will not ask you to stay.&nbsp; And I can return by myself."&nbsp;
She had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and
looked into his face.&nbsp; "You will do that for old acquaintance
sake?"&nbsp; For a moment or two he made no answer, and his face
was troubled, and his brow was black.&nbsp; He was endeavouring to
think;&mdash;but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way
through it.&nbsp; "I don't think you will let me ask in vain for
such a favour as that," she said.

<p>"No;" he replied.&nbsp; "I will take you down.&nbsp; When will
you go?"&nbsp; He had cockered himself up with some vain idea that
the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of
his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.

<p>"When will I go? when will you take me?&nbsp; You have Boards to
attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate.&nbsp; I am
a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs Pipkin's baby.&nbsp; Can
you be ready in ten minutes?&mdash;because I could."&nbsp; Paul shook his
head and laughed.&nbsp; "I've named a time and that doesn't
suit.&nbsp; Now, sir, you name another, and I'll promise it shall
suit."&nbsp; Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th.&nbsp; He must
attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the
Board day.&nbsp; Saturday of course would do for Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp;
Should she meet him at the railway station?&nbsp; Of course he
undertook to come and fetch her.

<p>Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put
her cheek up for him to kiss.&nbsp; There are moments in which a
man finds it utterly impossible that he should be prudent,&mdash;as to
which, when he thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive
himself for prudence, let the danger have been what it may.&nbsp;
Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as
her cheeks.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="43"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLIII.&nbsp; The City Road</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs Pipkin
was quite true.&nbsp; Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose
brother had died leaving a widow behind him at Islington.&nbsp; The
old man at Sheep's Acre farm had greatly resented this marriage,
had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,&mdash;or to his son after the
marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole Pipkin
race.&nbsp; When he undertook the charge of Ruby he had made it
matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the
Pipkins.&nbsp; This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the
sly with her uncle's widow at Islington.&nbsp; When therefore she
ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with herself in
going to her aunt's house.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was a poor woman, and
could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured,
and came to terms.&nbsp; Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate
for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread.&nbsp; But
she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go
out occasionally.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin immediately asked after a
lover.&nbsp; "I'm all right," said Ruby.&nbsp; If the lover was
what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her?&nbsp; This
was Mrs Pipkin's suggestion.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin thought that scandal
might in this way be avoided "That's as it may be, by-and-by," said
Ruby.

<p>Then she told all the story of John Crumb;&mdash;how she hated John
Crumb, how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John
Crumb.&nbsp; And she gave her own account of that night on which
John Crumb and Mr Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the
manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would
not have John Crumb.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was a respectable woman in
her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get
them;&mdash;but bound to live.&nbsp; She gave Ruby very good
advice.&nbsp; Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb,
that was one thing!&nbsp; But then there was nothing a young woman
should look to so much as a decent house over her head,&mdash;and
victuals.&nbsp; "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man
can't do for you?"&nbsp; Ruby declared that she knew somebody who
could do for her, and could do very well for her.&nbsp; She knew
what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off it.&nbsp; Mrs
Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not
strait-laced.&nbsp; If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about
her lover she must.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin had an idea that young women
in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty
than was allowed when she was young.&nbsp; The world was being
changed very fast.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin knew that as well as
others.&nbsp; And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre once and
again,&mdash;by herself as far as Mrs Pipkin knew, but probably in
company with her lover,&mdash;and did not get home till past midnight,
Mrs Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel
circumstances to the altered condition of her country.&nbsp; She
had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she
had been a girl,&mdash;but that had been in the earlier days of Queen
Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had
come.&nbsp; Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs
Pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was
right.&nbsp; Sir Felix's name had never even been mentioned in
Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it.&nbsp; She had been
managing her own affairs after her own fashion,&mdash;not altogether with
satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that
interference would come.&nbsp; Mr Montague had found her out, and
had told her grandfather's landlord.&nbsp; The Squire would be
after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by
Mr Mixet,&mdash;and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the
couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, "the fat would be
in the fire."

<p>"Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one
evening to her lover.&nbsp; They were sitting together at a
music-hall,&mdash;half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly
combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the
ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places.&nbsp; Sir Felix
was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, "incognito," with a
Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat.&nbsp;
Ruby thought it was charming.&nbsp; Felix entertained an idea that
were his West End friends to see him in this attire they would not
know him.&nbsp; He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot
brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby.&nbsp; He
was enjoying life.&nbsp; Poor Ruby!&nbsp; She was half-ashamed of
herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it
was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be
with her young man.&nbsp; Why not?&nbsp; The Miss Longestaffes were
allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,&mdash;when
they had any.&nbsp; Why was she to be given up to a great mass of
stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the
world?&nbsp; But yet, as she sat sipping her lover's brandy and
water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the City Road,
she was not altogether comfortable.&nbsp; She saw things which she
did not like to see.&nbsp; And she heard things which she did not
like to hear.&nbsp; And her lover, though he was beautiful,&mdash;oh, so
beautiful!&mdash;was not all that a lover should be.&nbsp; She was
still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him
for the promise which she expected him to make to her.&nbsp; Her
mind was set upon&mdash;marriage, but the word had hardly passed between
them.&nbsp; To have his arm round her waist was heaven to
her.&nbsp; Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of the
same order of human beings?&nbsp; But how was this to go on?&nbsp;
Even Mrs Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live
always with Mrs Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and
water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; She was glad
therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that
something was going to happen.&nbsp; "Who do you suppose was at our
place yesterday?"

<p>Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking
that perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there;
perhaps Didon herself.&nbsp; He was amusing himself during these
last evenings of his in London; but the business of his life was
about to take him to New York.&nbsp; That project was still being
elaborated.&nbsp; He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing
was wanting but the money.&nbsp; Didon had heard of the funds which
had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and had been very urgent
with him to recover them.&nbsp; Therefore, though his body was not
unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road
Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; "Who was
it, Ruby?"

<p>"A friend of the Squire's, a Mr Montague.&nbsp; I used to see
him about in Bungay and Beccles."

<p>"Paul Montague!"

<p>"Do you know him, Felix?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;rather.&nbsp; He's a member of our club, and I see him
constantly in the city&mdash;and I know him at home."

<p>"Is he nice?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;that depends on what you call nice.&nbsp; He's a prig of
a fellow."

<p>"He's got a lady friend where I live."

<p>"The devil he has!"&nbsp; Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger
Carbury's suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on
the part of Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by
her preference for Paul Montague.&nbsp; "Who is she, Ruby?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;she's a Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Such a stunning woman!&nbsp;
Aunt says she's an American.&nbsp; She's got lots of money."

<p>"Is Montague going to marry her?"

<p>"Oh dear yes.&nbsp; It's all arranged.&nbsp; Mr Montague comes
quite regular to see her;&mdash;not so regular as be ought, though.&nbsp;
When gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are
regular afterwards.&nbsp; I wonder whether it'll be the same with
you?"

<p>"Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?"

<p>"Bother John Crumb!&nbsp; That wasn't none of my doings.&nbsp;
Oh, he'd been regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like
clockwork,&mdash;only the slowest clock out.&nbsp; But Mr Montague has
been and told the Squire as he saw me.&nbsp; He told me so
himself.&nbsp; The Squire's coming about John Crumb.&nbsp; I know
that.&nbsp; What am I to tell him, Felix?"

<p>"Tell him to mind his own business.&nbsp; He can't do anything
to you."

<p>"No;&mdash;he can't do nothing.&nbsp; I ain't done nothing wrong, and
he can't send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's
Acre.&nbsp; But he can talk,&mdash;and he can look.&nbsp; I ain't one of
those, Felix, as don't mind about their characters,&mdash;so don't you
think it.&nbsp; Shall I tell him as I'm with you?"

<p>"Gracious goodness, no!&nbsp; What would you say that for?"

<p>"I didn't know.&nbsp; I must say something."

<p>"Tell him you're nothing to him."

<p>"But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I
know she will.&nbsp; And who am I with?&nbsp; He'll be asking
that."

<p>"Your aunt does not know?"

<p>"No;&mdash;I've told nobody yet.&nbsp; But it won't do to go on like
that, you know,&mdash;will it?&nbsp; You don't want it to go on always
like that;&mdash;do you?"

<p>"It's very jolly, I think."

<p>"It ain't jolly for me.&nbsp; Of course, Felix, I like to be
with you.&nbsp; That's jolly.&nbsp; But I have to mind them brats
all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms.&nbsp; And that's not the
worst of it."

<p>"What is the worst of it?"

<p>"I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself.&nbsp; Yes, I am."&nbsp; And
now Ruby burst out into tears.&nbsp; "Because I wouldn't have John
Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl.&nbsp; Nor yet I won't.&nbsp;
But what'll I do, if everybody turns against me?&nbsp; Aunt won't
go on for ever in this way.&nbsp; She said last night that&mdash;"

<p>"Bother what she says!"&nbsp; Felix was not at all anxious to
hear what aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.

<p>"She's right too.&nbsp; Of course she knows there's
somebody.&nbsp; She ain't such a fool as to think that I'm out at
these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women.&nbsp; She
says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind.&nbsp;
There;&mdash;that's what she says.&nbsp; And she's right.&nbsp; A girl
has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."

<p>Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy
and water.&nbsp; Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped,
for the waiter and called for another.&nbsp; He intended to avoid
the necessity of making any direct reply to Ruby's
importunities.&nbsp; He was going to New York very shortly, and
looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond
which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther
distance.&nbsp; He had not troubled himself to think how it might
be with Ruby when he was gone.&nbsp; He had not even considered
whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he
started.&nbsp; It was not his fault that she had come up to
London.&nbsp; She was an "awfully jolly girl," and he liked the
feeling of the intrigue better, perhaps, than the girl
herself.&nbsp; But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give
himself any "d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;d trouble."&nbsp; The
idea of John Crumb coming up to London in his wrath had never
occurred to him,&mdash;or he would probably have hurried on his journey
to New York instead of delaying it, as he was doing now.&nbsp;
"Let's go in, and have a dance," he said.

<p>Ruby was very fond of dancing,&mdash;perhaps liked it better than
anything in the world.&nbsp; It was heaven to her to be spinning
round the big room with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with
one hand in his and her other hanging over his back.&nbsp; She
loved the music, and loved the motion.&nbsp; Her ear was good, and
her strength was great, and she never lacked breath.&nbsp; She
could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time
that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than
that;&mdash;and such moments were too precious to be lost.&nbsp; She went
and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer
to her question before she left her lover on that night.

<p>"And now I must go," she said at last.&nbsp; "You'll see me as
far as the Angel, won't you?"&nbsp; Of course he was ready to see
her as far as the Angel.&nbsp; "What am I to say to the Squire?"

<p>"Say nothing."

<p>"And what am I to say to aunt?"

<p>"Say to her?&nbsp; Just say what you have said all along."

<p>"I've said nothing all along,&mdash;just to oblige you, Felix.&nbsp; I
must say something.&nbsp; A girl has got herself to mind.&nbsp;
What have you got to say to me, Felix?"

<p>He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer.&nbsp;
"If you bother me I shall cut it, you know."

<p>"Cut it!"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;cut it.&nbsp; Can't you wait till I am ready to say
something?"

<p>"Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer.&nbsp;
Where am I to go, if Mrs Pipkin won't have me no more?"

<p>"I'll find a place for you."

<p>"You find a place!&nbsp; No; that won't do.&nbsp; I've told you
all that before.&nbsp; I'd sooner go into service, or&mdash;"

<p>"Go back to John Crumb."

<p>"John Crumb has more respect for me nor you.&nbsp; He'd make me
his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy."

<p>"I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix.

<p>"Yes, you did.&nbsp; You told me as I was to come up to London
when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;&mdash;didn't you?&nbsp; And you
told me you loved me;&mdash;didn't you?&nbsp; And that if I wanted
anything you'd get it done for me;&mdash;didn't you?"

<p>"So I will.&nbsp; What do you want?&nbsp; I can give you a
couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is."

<p>"No it isn't;&mdash;and I won't have your money.&nbsp; I'd sooner work
my fingers off.&nbsp; I want you to say whether you mean to marry
me.&nbsp; There!"

<p>As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told,
that would have been nothing to him.&nbsp; He was going to New
York, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought
that lies of that kind to young women never went for
anything.&nbsp; Young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but
liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been
deceived.&nbsp; It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the
fact that he was a baronet.&nbsp; It was in his estimation
"confounded impudence" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his
wife.&nbsp; He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to
seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her
dictation.&nbsp; "Marry, Ruby!&nbsp; No, I don't ever mean to
marry.&nbsp; It's the greatest bore out.&nbsp; I know a trick worth
two of that."

<p>She stopped in the street and looked at him.&nbsp; This was a
state of things of which she had never dreamed.&nbsp; She could
imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should
have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to
marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand.&nbsp; What
business had such a man to go after any young woman?&nbsp; "And
what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said.

<p>"Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother."

<p>"Not make myself a bother!&nbsp; Oh, but I will; I will.&nbsp;
I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for
you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all!&nbsp;
Never?"

<p>"Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?"

<p>"Of course I does.&nbsp; There's the Squire.&nbsp; But he don't
come asking girls to keep him company."

<p>"That's more than you know, Ruby."

<p>"If he did he'd marry her out of hand,&mdash;because he's a
gentleman.&nbsp; That's what he is, every inch of him.&nbsp; He
never said a word to a girl,&mdash;not to do her any harm, I'm sure," and
Ruby began to, cry.&nbsp; "You mustn't come no further now, and
I'll never see you again&mdash;never!&nbsp; I think you're the falsest
young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard
tell of.&nbsp; I know there are them as don't keep their
words.&nbsp; Things turn up, and they can't.&nbsp; Or they gets to
like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on.&nbsp; But
for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right
out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited
fellow that ever was.&nbsp; I never read of such a one in none of
the books.&nbsp; No, I won't.&nbsp; You go your way, and I'll go
mine."&nbsp; In her passion she was as good as her word, and
escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door.&nbsp;
There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she
did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her
behalf.&nbsp; He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in
order that the present hour might be made pleasant.&nbsp; Ruby let
herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a
child on each side of her.

<p>On the next day Roger called.&nbsp; She had begged Mrs Pipkin to
attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman
ask for Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin
had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger
Carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the
house, and having made up her mind that Ruby's present condition of
independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to
Ruby herself, she determined that the Squire, if he did come,
should see the young lady.&nbsp; When therefore Ruby was called
into the little back parlour and found Roger Carbury there, she
thought that she had been caught in a trap.&nbsp; She had been very
cross all the morning.&nbsp; Though in her rage she had been able
on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply
that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of
the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,&mdash;when she could no
longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful
things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that
though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work
in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would
bloom forth as a baronet's bride,&mdash;now in her solitude she almost
regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct.&nbsp; Could it be
that she would never see him again;&mdash;that she would dance no more in
that gilded bright saloon?&nbsp; And might it not be possible that
she had pressed him too hard?&nbsp; A baronet of course would not
like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one
as John Crumb.&nbsp; But yet,&mdash;that he should have said
never;&mdash;that he would never marry!&nbsp; Looking at it in any
light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not
serve to cure her misery.

<p>Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding
her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was
comfortably settled with her aunt.&nbsp; "We were all alarmed, of
course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were
going."

<p>"Grandfather'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."

<p>"He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours."

<p>"To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to
make a girl keep her word;&mdash;was it, Mr Carbury?&nbsp; That's what he
did, then;&mdash;and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it.&nbsp; I've
been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb;
and he shouldn't have treated me like that.&nbsp; No girl'd like to
be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her
things all off, just getting into bed."

<p>The Squire had no answer to make to this.&nbsp; That old Ruggles
should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did
not surprise him.&nbsp; And the girl, when driven away from her
home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt.&nbsp;
But Roger had already heard a few words from Mrs Pipkin as to
Ruby's late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew
very well who that lover was.&nbsp; He also was quite familiar with
John Crumb's state of mind.&nbsp; John Crumb was a gallant, loving
fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if Ruby would
only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow
fashion of his own, and "see the matter out," as he would say
himself, if she did not go back.&nbsp; "As you found yourself
obliged to run away," said Roger, "I'm glad that you should be
here; but you don't mean to stay here always?"

<p>"I don't know," said Ruby.

<p>"You must think of your future life.&nbsp; You don't want to be
always your aunt's maid."

<p>"Oh dear, no."

<p>"It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of
such a man as Mr Crumb."

<p>"Oh, Mr Crumb!&nbsp; Everybody is going on about Mr Crumb.&nbsp;
I don't like Mr Crumb, and I never will like him."

<p>"Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very
seriously, and I expect you to hear me.&nbsp; Nobody can make you
marry Mr Crumb, unless you please."

<p>"Nobody can't, of course, sir."

<p>"But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who
certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you."

<p>"Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby.&nbsp; "A girl has to look to
herself, and I mean to look to myself."

<p>"I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a
one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself.&nbsp; That
means going to the devil head foremost."

<p>"I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.

<p>"But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young
man.&nbsp; He's as bad as bad can be.&nbsp; He's my own cousin, and
yet I'm obliged to tell you so.&nbsp; He has no more idea of
marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not
support you.&nbsp; He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young
woman who trusted him.&nbsp; I'm almost old enough to be your
father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young
man as he is.&nbsp; He would ruin you and cast you from him without
a pang of remorse.&nbsp; He has no heart in his bosom;&mdash;none."&nbsp;
Ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron
to her eyes in one corner of the room.&nbsp; "That's what Sir Felix
Carbury is," said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak
with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly.&nbsp; "And
if I understand it rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing
such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in
character, as the sun is above the earth.&nbsp; You think little of
John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat."

<p>"I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't
ever a word to say, was it ever so."

<p>"Words to say! what do words matter?&nbsp; He loves you.&nbsp;
He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and
respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace."&nbsp; Ruby
struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found
herself to be incapable of speech at the moment.&nbsp; "He thinks
more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he
has.&nbsp; What would that other man give you?&nbsp; If you were
once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the
hairs of your head?&nbsp; Would there be any want then, or any
disgrace?"

<p>"There ain't no disgrace, Mr Carbury."

<p>"No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix
Carbury?&nbsp; You are not a fool, and you know that it is
disgraceful.&nbsp; If you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife,
go back and beg that man's pardon."

<p>"John Crumb's pardon!&nbsp; No!"

<p>"Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how
lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble
fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would
perhaps change your mind a little."

<p>Her mind was being changed.&nbsp; His words did have their
effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that
was borne in upon her.&nbsp; She had never expected to hear any one
call John Crumb noble.&nbsp; But she had never respected any one
more highly than Squire Carbury, and he said that John Crumb was
noble.&nbsp; Amidst all her misery and trouble she still told
herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,&mdash;and also a dumb nobility.

<p>"I'll tell you what will take place," continued Roger.&nbsp; "Mr
Crumb won't put up with this you know."

<p>"He can't do nothing to me, sir."

<p>"That's true enough.&nbsp; Unless it be to take you in his arms
and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you.&nbsp; Do
you think he'd injure you if he could?&nbsp; You don't know what a
man's love really means, Ruby.&nbsp; But he could do something to
somebody else.&nbsp; How do you think it would be with Felix
Carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?"

<p>"John's mortial strong, Mr Carbury."

<p>"If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed.&nbsp;
One is a brave man, and the other&mdash;a coward.&nbsp; Which do you
think is which?"

<p>"He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say
everything again him."

<p>"You know I'm telling you the truth.&nbsp; You know it as well
as I do myself;&mdash;and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the
man who loves you over,&mdash;for such a fellow as that!&nbsp; Go back to
him, Ruby, and beg his pardon."

<p>"I never will;&mdash;never."

<p>"I've spoken to Mrs Pipkin, and while you're here she will see
that you don't keep such hours any longer.&nbsp; You tell me that
you're not disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young
blackguard like that!&nbsp; I've said what I've got to say, and I'm
going away.&nbsp; But I'll let your grandfather know."

<p>"Grandfather don't want me no more."

<p>"And I'll come again.&nbsp; If you want money to go home, I will
let you have it.&nbsp; Take my advice at least in this;&mdash;do not see
Sir Felix Carbury any more."&nbsp; Then he took his leave.&nbsp; If
he had failed to impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had
certainly been efficacious in lessening that which she had
entertained for Sir Felix.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="44"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLIV.&nbsp; The Coming Election</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The very greatness of Mr Melmotte's popularity, the extent of
the admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his
commercial enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar
bitterness in the opposition that was organized against him at
Westminster.&nbsp; As the high mountains are intersected by deep
valleys, as puritanism in one age begets infidelity in the next, as
in many countries the thickness of the winter's ice will be in
proportion to the number of the summer musquitoes, so was the
keenness of the hostility displayed on this occasion in proportion
to the warmth of the support which was manifested.&nbsp; As the
great man was praised, so also was he abused.&nbsp; As he was a
demi-god to some, so was he a fiend to others.&nbsp; And indeed
there was hardly any other way in which it was possible to carry on
the contest against him.&nbsp; From the moment in which Mr Melmotte
had declared his purpose of standing for Westminster in the
Conservative interest, an attempt was made to drive him down the
throats of the electors by clamorous assertions of his
unprecedented commercial greatness.&nbsp; It seemed that there was
but one virtue in the world, commercial enterprise,&mdash;and that
Melmotte was its prophet.&nbsp; It seemed, too, that the orators
and writers of the day intended all Westminster to believe that
Melmotte treated his great affairs in a spirit very different from
that which animates the bosoms of merchants in general.&nbsp; He
had risen above feeling of personal profit.&nbsp; His wealth was so
immense that there was no longer place for anxiety on that
score.&nbsp; He already possessed,&mdash;so it was said,&mdash;enough to
found a dozen families, and he had but one daughter!&nbsp; But by
carrying on the enormous affairs which he held in his hands, he
would be able to open up new worlds, to afford relief to the
oppressed nationalities of the over-populated old countries.&nbsp;
He had seen how small was the good done by the Peabodys and the
Bairds, and, resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions,
was intent on projects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful
bread by the moderate sweat of their brows.&nbsp; He was the head
and front of the railway which was to regenerate Mexico.&nbsp; It
was presumed that the contemplated line from ocean to ocean across
British America would become a fact in his hands.&nbsp; It was he
who was to enter into terms with the Emperor of China for farming
the tea-fields of that vast country.&nbsp; He was already in treaty
with Russia for a railway from Moscow to Khiva.&nbsp; He had a
fleet,&mdash;or soon would have a fleet of emigrant ships,&mdash;ready to
carry every discontented Irishman out of Ireland to whatever
quarter of the globe the Milesian might choose for the exercise of
his political principles.&nbsp; It was known that he had already
floated a company for laying down a submarine wire from Penzance to
Point de Galle, round the Cape of Good Hope,&mdash;so that, in the event
of general wars, England need be dependent on no other country for
its communications with India.&nbsp; And then there was the
philanthropic scheme for buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs
from the Khedive of Egypt for thirty millions sterling,&mdash;the
compensation to consist of the concession of a territory about four
times as big as Great Britain in the lately annexed country on the
great African lakes.&nbsp; It may have been the case that some of
these things were as yet only matters of conversation,&mdash;speculations
as to which Mr Melmotte's mind and imagination had been at work,
rather than his pocket or even his credit; but they were all
sufficiently matured to find their way into the public press, and
to be used as strong arguments why Melmotte should become member of
Parliament for Westminster.

<p>All this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves
called upon by the demands of their political position to oppose Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; You can run down a demi-god only by making him out
to be a demi-devil.&nbsp; These very persons, the leading Liberals
of the leading borough in England as they called themselves, would
perhaps have cared little about Melmotte's antecedents had it not
become their duty to fight him as a Conservative.&nbsp; Had the
great man found at the last moment that his own British politics
had been liberal in their nature, these very enemies would have
been on his committee.&nbsp; It was their business to secure the
seat.&nbsp; And as Melmotte's supporters began the battle with an
attempt at what the Liberals called "bounce,"&mdash;to carry the borough
with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of their candidate's
virtues,&mdash;the other party was driven to make some enquiries as to
that candidate's antecedents.&nbsp; They quickly warmed to the
work, and were not less loud in exposing the Satan of speculation,
than had been the Conservatives in declaring the commercial
Jove.&nbsp; Emissaries were sent to Paris and Frankfort, and the
wires were used to Vienna and New York.&nbsp; It was not difficult
to collect stories,&mdash;true or false; and some quiet men, who merely
looked on at the game, expressed an opinion that Melmotte might
have wisely abstained from the glories of Parliament.

<p>Nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a
proper Liberal candidate to run against him.&nbsp; The nobleman who
had been elevated out of his seat by the death of his father had
been a great Whig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense
wealth and of popularity equal to its possessions.&nbsp; One of
that family might have contested the borough at a much less expense
than any other person,&mdash;and to them the expense would have mattered
but little.&nbsp; But there was no such member of it
forthcoming.&nbsp; Lord This and Lord That,&mdash;and the Honourable This
and the Honourable That, sons of other cognate Lords,&mdash;already had
seats which they were unwilling to vacate in the present state of
affairs.&nbsp; There was but one other session for the existing
Parliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in Melmotte's
favour.&nbsp; Many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were
either afraid of Melmotte's purse or his influence.&nbsp; Lord
Buntingford was asked, and he and his family were good old
Whigs.&nbsp; But he was nephew to Lord Alfred Grendall, first
cousin to Miles Grendall, and abstained on behalf of his
relatives.&nbsp; An overture was made to Sir Damask Monogram, who
certainly could afford the contest.&nbsp; But Sir Damask did not
see his way.&nbsp; Melmotte was a working bee, while he was a
drone,&mdash;and he did not wish to have the difference pointed out by
Mr Melmotte's supporters.&nbsp; Moreover, he preferred his yacht
and his four-in-hand.

<p>At last a candidate was selected, whose nomination and whose
consent to occupy the position created very great surprise in the
London world.&nbsp; The press had of course taken up the matter
very strongly.&nbsp; The "Morning Breakfast Table" supported Mr
Melmotte with all its weight.&nbsp; There were people who said that
this support was given by Mr Broune under the influence of Lady
Carbury, and that Lady Carbury in this way endeavoured to reconcile
the great man to a marriage between his daughter and Sir
Felix.&nbsp; But it is more probable that Mr Broune saw,&mdash;or thought
that he saw,&mdash;which way the wind sat, and that he supported the
commercial hero because he felt that the hero would be supported by
the country at large.&nbsp; In praising a book, or putting foremost
the merits of some official or military claimant, or writing up a
charity,&mdash;in some small matter of merely personal interest,&mdash;the
Editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" might perhaps allow himself
to listen to a lady whom he loved.&nbsp; But he knew his work too
well to jeopardize his paper by such influences in any matter which
might probably become interesting to the world of his
readers.&nbsp; There was a strong belief in Melmotte.&nbsp; The
clubs thought that he would be returned for Westminster.&nbsp; The
dukes and duchesses f&ecirc;ted him.&nbsp; The city,&mdash;even the city
was showing a wavering disposition to come round.&nbsp; Bishops
begged for his name on the list of promoters of their pet
schemes.&nbsp; Royalty without stint was to dine at his
table.&nbsp; Melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand of the
brother of the Sun and of the uncle of the Moon, and British
Royalty was to be arranged opposite, so that every one might seem
to have the place of most honour.&nbsp; How could a conscientious
Editor of a "Morning Breakfast Table," seeing how things were
going, do other than support Mr Melmotte?&nbsp; In fair justice it
may be well doubted whether Lady Carbury had exercised any
influence in the matter.

<p>But the "Evening Pulpit" took the other side.&nbsp; Now this was
the more remarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch
as the "Evening Pulpit" had never supported the Liberal
interest.&nbsp; As was said in the first chapter of this work, the
motto of that newspaper implied that it was to be conducted on
principles of absolute independence.&nbsp; Had the "Evening
Pulpit," like some of its contemporaries, lived by declaring from
day to day that all Liberal elements were godlike, and all their
opposites satanic, as a matter of course the same line of argument
would have prevailed as to the Westminster election.&nbsp; But as
it had not been so, the vigour of the "Evening Pulpit" on this
occasion was the more alarming and the more noticeable,&mdash;so that
the short articles which appeared almost daily in reference to Mr
Melmotte were read by everybody.&nbsp; Now they who are concerned
in the manufacture of newspapers are well aware that censure is
infinitely more attractive than eulogy,&mdash;but they are quite as well
aware that it is more dangerous.&nbsp; No proprietor or editor was
ever brought before the courts at the cost of ever so many hundred
pounds,&mdash;which if things go badly may rise to thousands,&mdash;because
he had attributed all but divinity to some very poor specimen of
mortality.&nbsp; No man was ever called upon for damages because he
had attributed grand motives.&nbsp; It might be well for politics
and Literature and art,&mdash;and for truth in general, if it was
possible to do so, but a new law of libel must be enacted before
such salutary proceedings can take place.&nbsp; Censure on the
other hand is open to very grave perils.&nbsp; Let the Editor have
been ever so conscientious, ever so beneficent,&mdash;even ever so
true,&mdash;let it be ever so clear that what he has written has been
written on behalf of virtue, and that he has misstated no fact,
exaggerated no fault, never for a moment been allured from public
to private matters,&mdash;and he may still be in danger of ruin.&nbsp;
A very long purse, or else a very high courage is needed for the
exposure of such conduct as the "Evening Pulpit" attributed to Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; The paper took up this line suddenly.&nbsp; After
the second article Mr Alf sent back to Mr Miles Grendall, who in
the matter was acting as Mr Melmotte's secretary, the ticket of
invitation for the dinner, with a note from Mr Alf stating that
circumstances connected with the forthcoming election for
Westminster could not permit him to have the great honour of dining
at Mr Melmotte's table in the presence of the Emperor of
China.&nbsp; Miles Grendall showed the note to the dinner
committee, and, without consultation with Mr Melmotte, it was
decided that the ticket should be sent to the Editor of a
thorough-going Conservative journal.&nbsp; This conduct on the part
of the "Evening Pulpit" astonished the world considerably; but the
world was more astonished when it was declared that Mr Ferdinand
Alf himself was going to stand for Westminster on the Liberal
interest.

<p>Various suggestions were made.&nbsp; Some said that as Mr Alf
had a large share in the newspaper, and as its success was now an
established fact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious
position which he filled, and was therefore free to go into
Parliament.&nbsp; Others were of opinion that this was the
beginning of a new era in literature, of a new order of things, and
that from this time forward editors would frequently be found in
Parliament, if editors were employed of sufficient influence in the
world to find constituencies.&nbsp; Mr Broune whispered
confidentially to Lady Carbury that the man was a fool for his
pains, and that he was carried away by pride.&nbsp; "Very
clever,&mdash;and dashing," said Mr Broune, "but he never had
ballast."&nbsp; Lady Carbury shook her head.&nbsp; She did not want
to give up Mr Alf if she could help it.&nbsp; He had never said a
civil word of her in his paper;&mdash;but still she had an idea that it
was well to be on good terms with so great a power.&nbsp; She
entertained a mysterious awe for Mr Alf,&mdash;much in excess of any
similar feeling excited by Mr Broune, in regard to whom her awe had
been much diminished since he had made her an offer of
marriage.&nbsp; Her sympathies as to the election of course were
with Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; She believed in him thoroughly.&nbsp; She
still thought that his nod might be the means of making Felix,&mdash;or
if not his nod, then his money without the nod.

<p>"I suppose he is very rich," she said, speaking to Mr Broune
respecting Mr Alf.

<p>"I dare say he has put by something.&nbsp; But this election
will cost him &pound;10,000;&mdash;and if he goes on as he is doing now,
he had better allow another &pound;10,000 for action for
libel.&nbsp; They've already declared that they will indict the
paper."

<p>"Do you believe about the Austrian Insurance Company?"&nbsp;
This was a matter as to which Mr Melmotte was supposed to have
retired from Paris not with clean hands.

<p>"I don't believe the 'Evening Pulpit' can prove it,&mdash;and I'm sure
that they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or
four thousand pounds.&nbsp; That's a game in which nobody wins but
the lawyers.&nbsp; I wonder at Alf.&nbsp; I should have thought
that he would have known how to get all said that he wanted to have
said without running with his head into the lion's mouth.&nbsp; He
has been so clever up to this!&nbsp; God knows he has been bitter
enough, but he has always sailed within the wind."

<p>Mr Alf had a powerful committee.&nbsp; By this time an animus in
regard to the election had been created strong enough to bring out
the men on both sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there
might only have been a warmth or, possibly, frigidity.&nbsp; The
Whig Marquises and the Whig Barons came forward, and with them the
liberal professional men, and the tradesmen who had found that
party to answer best, and the democratical mechanics.&nbsp; If
Melmotte's money did not, at last, utterly demoralise the lower
class of voters, there would still be a good fight.&nbsp; And there
was a strong hope that, under the ballot, Melmotte's money might be
taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting.&nbsp; It was
found upon trial that Mr Alf was a good speaker.&nbsp; And though
he still conducted the "Evening Pulpit", he made time for
addressing meetings of the constituency almost daily.&nbsp; And in
his speeches he never spared Melmotte.&nbsp; No one, he said, had a
greater reverence for mercantile grandeur than himself.&nbsp; But
let them take care that the grandeur was grand.&nbsp; How great
would be the disgrace to such a borough as that of Westminster if
it should find that it had been taken in by a false spirit of
speculation and that it had surrendered itself to gambling when it
had thought to do honour to honest commerce.&nbsp; This, connected,
as of course it was, with the articles in the paper, was regarded
as very open speaking.&nbsp; And it had its effect.&nbsp; Some men
began to say that Melmotte had not been known long enough to
deserve confidence in his riches, and the Lord Mayor was already
beginning to think that it might be wise to escape the dinner by
some excuse.

<p>Melmotte's committee was also very grand.&nbsp; If Alf was
supported by Marquises and Barons, he was supported by Dukes and
Earls.&nbsp; But his speaking in public did not of itself inspire
much confidence.&nbsp; He had very little to say when he attempted
to explain the political principles on which he intended to
act.&nbsp; After a little he confined himself to remarks on the
personal attacks made on him by the other side, and even in doing
that was reiterative rather than diffusive.&nbsp; Let them prove
it.&nbsp; He defied them to prove it.&nbsp; Englishmen were too
great, too generous, too honest, too noble,&mdash;the men of Westminster
especially were a great deal too highminded to pay any attention to
such charges as these till they were proved.&nbsp; Then he began
again.&nbsp; Let them prove it.&nbsp; Such accusations as these
were mere lies till they were proved.&nbsp; He did not say much
himself in public as to actions for libel,&mdash;but assurances were made
on his behalf to the electors, especially by Lord Alfred Grendall
and his son, that as soon as the election was over all speakers and
writers would be indicted for libel, who should be declared by
proper legal advice to have made themselves liable to such
action.&nbsp; The "Evening Pulpit" and Mr Alf would of course be
the first victims.

<p>The dinner was fixed for Monday, July the 8th.&nbsp; The
election for the borough was to be held on Tuesday the 9th.&nbsp;
It was generally thought that the proximity of the two days had
been arranged with the view of enhancing Melmotte's expected
triumph.&nbsp; But such in truth, was not the case.&nbsp; It had
been an accident, and an accident that was distressing to some of
the Melmottites.&nbsp; There was much to be done about the
dinner,&mdash;which could not be omitted; and much also as to the
election,&mdash;which was imperative.&nbsp; The two Grendalls, father
and son, found themselves to be so driven that the world seemed for
them to be turned topsy-turvy.&nbsp; The elder had in old days been
accustomed to electioneering in the interest of his own family, and
had declared himself willing to make himself useful on behalf of Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; But he found Westminster to be almost too much for
him.&nbsp; He was called here and sent there, till he was very near
rebellion.&nbsp; "If this goes on much longer I shall cut it," he
said to his son.

<p>"Think of me, governor," said the son "I have to be in the city
four or five times a week."

<p>"You've a regular salary."

<p>"Come, governor; you've done pretty well for that.&nbsp; What's
my salary to the shares you've had?&nbsp; The thing is;&mdash;will it
last?"

<p>"How last?"

<p>"There are a good many who say that Melmotte will burst up."

<p>"I don't believe it," said Lord Alfred.&nbsp; "They don't know
what they're talking about.&nbsp; There are too many in the same
boat to let him burst up.&nbsp; It would be the bursting up of half
London.&nbsp; But I shall tell him after this that he must make it
easier.&nbsp; He wants to know who's to have every ticket for the
dinner, and there's nobody to tell him except me.&nbsp; And I've
got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help me except that
fellow from the Herald's office.&nbsp; I don't know about people's
rank.&nbsp; Which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a
fellow who writes books?"&nbsp; Miles suggested that the fellow
from the Herald's office would know all about that, and that his
father need not trouble himself with petty details.

<p>"And you shall come to us for three days,&mdash;after it's over," said
Lady Monogram to Miss Longestaffe; a proposition to which Miss
Longestaffe acceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as
though a favour had been conferred upon her.&nbsp; Now the reason
why Lady Monogram had changed her mind as to inviting her old
friend, and thus threw open her hospitality for three whole days to
the poor young lady who had disgraced herself by staying with the
Melmottes, was as follows.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe had the disposal
of two evening tickets for Madame Melmotte's grand reception; and
so greatly had the Melmottes risen in general appreciation that
Lady Monogram had found that she was bound, on behalf of her own
position in society, to be present on that occasion.&nbsp; It would
not do that her name should not be in the printed list of the
guests.&nbsp; Therefore she had made a serviceable bargain with her
old friend Miss Longestaffe.&nbsp; She was to have her two tickets
for the reception, and Miss Longestaffe was to be received for
three days as a guest by Lady Monogram.&nbsp; It had also been
conceded that at any rate on one of these nights Lady Monogram
should take Miss Longestaffe out with her, and that she should
herself receive company on another.&nbsp; There was perhaps
something slightly painful at the commencement of the negotiation;
but such feelings soon fade away, and Lady Monogram was quite a
woman of the world.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="45"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLV.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte Is Pressed for Time</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>About this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election,
Mr Longestaffe came up to town and saw Mr Melmotte very
frequently.&nbsp; He could not go into his own house, as he had let
that for a month to the great financier, nor had he any
establishment in town; but he slept at an hotel and lived at the
Carlton.&nbsp; He was quite delighted to find that his new friend
was an honest Conservative, and he himself proposed the honest
Conservative at the club.&nbsp; There was some idea of electing Mr
Melmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club could not go
beyond its rule, and could only admit Mr Melmotte out of his
regular turn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the House of
Commons.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was
heard to declare that if the club did not take him when he was
willing to be taken, it might do without him.&nbsp; If not elected
at once, he should withdraw his name.&nbsp; So great was his
prestige at this moment with his own party that there were some, Mr
Longestaffe among the number, who pressed the thing on the
committee.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was not like other men.&nbsp; It was a
great thing to have Mr Melmotte in the party.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte's
financial capabilities would in themselves be a tower of
strength.&nbsp; Rules were not made to control the club in a matter
of such importance as this.&nbsp; A noble lord, one among seven who
had been named as a fit leader of the Upper House on the
Conservative side in the next session, was asked to take the matter
up; and men thought that the thing might have been done had he
complied.&nbsp; But he was old-fashioned, perhaps pig-headed; and
the club for the time lost the honour of entertaining Mr Melmotte.

<p>It may be remembered that Mr Longestaffe had been anxious to
become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was
rather snubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; Like other great men, Mr Melmotte liked to choose
his own time for bestowing favours.&nbsp; Since that request was
made the proper time had come, and he had now intimated to Mr
Longestaffe that in a somewhat altered condition of things there
would be a place for him at the Board, and that he and his brother
directors would be delighted to avail themselves of his
assistance.&nbsp; The alliance between Mr Melmotte and Mr
Longestaffe had become very close.&nbsp; The Melmottes had visited
the Longestaffes at Caversham.&nbsp; Georgiana Longestaffe was
staying with Madame Melmotte in London.&nbsp; The Melmottes were
living in Mr Longestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month
at a very high rent.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe now had a seat at Mr
Melmotte's board.&nbsp; And Mr Melmotte had bought Mr Longestaffe's
estate at Pickering on terms very favourable to the
Longestaffes.&nbsp; It had been suggested to Mr Longestaffe by Mr
Melmotte that he had better qualify for his seat at the Board by
taking shares in the Company to the amount of&mdash;perhaps two or three
thousand pounds, and Mr Longestaffe had of course consented.&nbsp;
There would be no need of any transaction in absolute cash.&nbsp;
The shares could of course be paid for out of Mr Longestaffe's half
of the purchase money for Pickering Park, and could remain for the
present in Mr Melmotte's hands.&nbsp; To this also Mr Longestaffe
had consented, not quite understanding why the scrip should not be
made over to him at once.

<p>It was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man
that no ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything.&nbsp;
Great purchases were made and great transactions apparently
completed without the signing even of a cheque.&nbsp; Mr
Longestaffe found himself to be afraid even to give a hint to Mr
Melmotte about ready money.&nbsp; In speaking of all such matters
Melmotte seemed to imply that everything necessary had been done,
when he had said that it was done.&nbsp; Pickering had been
purchased and the title-deeds made over to Mr Melmotte; but the
&pound;80,000 had not been paid,&mdash;had not been absolutely paid,
though of course Mr Melmotte's note assenting to the terms was
security sufficient for any reasonable man.&nbsp; The property had
been mortgaged, though not heavily, and Mr Melmotte had no doubt
satisfied the mortgagee; but there was still a sum of &pound;50,000
to come, of which Dolly was to have one half and the other was to
be employed in paying off Mr Longestaffe's debts to tradesmen and
debts to the bank.&nbsp; It would have been very pleasant to have
had this at once,&mdash;but Mr Longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing
such a man as Mr Melmotte, and was partly conscious of the gradual
consummation of a new era in money matters.&nbsp; "If your banker
is pressing you, refer him to me," Mr Melmotte had said.&nbsp; As
for many years past we have exchanged paper instead of actual money
for our commodities, so now it seemed that, under the new Melmotte
regime, an exchange of words was to suffice.

<p>But Dolly wanted his money.&nbsp; Dolly, idle as he was, foolish
as he was, dissipated as he was and generally indifferent to his
debts, liked to have what belonged to him.&nbsp; It had all been
arranged.&nbsp; &pound;5,000 would pay off all his tradesmen's
debts and leave him comfortably possessed of money in hand, while
the other &pound;20,000 would make his own property free.&nbsp;
There was a charm in this which awakened even Dolly, and for the
time almost reconciled him to his father's society.&nbsp; But now a
shade of impatience was coming over him.&nbsp; He had actually gone
down to Caversham to arrange the terms with his father,&mdash;and had in
fact made his own terms.&nbsp; His father had been unable to move
him, and had consequently suffered much in spirit.&nbsp; Dolly had
been almost triumphant,&mdash;thinking that the money would come on the
next day, or at any rate during the next week.&nbsp; Now he came to
his father early in the morning,&mdash;at about two o'clock,&mdash;to inquire
what was being done.&nbsp; He had not as yet been made blessed with
a single ten-pound note in his hand, as the result of the sale.

<p>"Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?" he asked somewhat
abruptly.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to
the Board."

<p>"You're going in for that, are you, sir?&nbsp; Do they pay
anything?"

<p>"I believe not."

<p>"Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it.&nbsp; It's a sort of
Beargarden affair."

<p>"A bear-garden affair, Adolphus.&nbsp; How so?"

<p>"I mean the club.&nbsp; We had them all there for dinner one
day, and a jolly dinner we gave them.&nbsp; Miles Grendall and old
Alfred belong to it.&nbsp; I don't think they'd go in for it, if
there was no money going.&nbsp; I'd make them fork out something if
I took the trouble of going all that way."

<p>"I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these
things."

<p>"No, I don't.&nbsp; I don't understand much about business, I
know.&nbsp; What I want to understand is, when Melmotte is going to
pay up this money."

<p>"I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks," said the father.

<p>"I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir.&nbsp;
You'd better tell him not.&nbsp; A cheque upon his bank which I can
pay in to mine is about the best thing going.&nbsp; You'll be in
the city to-morrow, and you'd better tell him.&nbsp; If you don't
like, you know, I'll get Squercum to do it."&nbsp; Mr Squercum was
a lawyer whom Dolly had employed of late years much to the
annoyance of his parent.&nbsp; Mr Squercum's name was odious to Mr
Longestaffe.

<p>"I beg you'll do nothing of the kind.&nbsp; It will be very
foolish if you do;&mdash;perhaps ruinous."

<p>"Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else," said Dolly as he
left the room.&nbsp; The father knew the son, and was quite sure
that Squercum would have his finger in the pie unless the money
were paid quickly.&nbsp; When Dolly had taken an idea into his
head, no power on earth,&mdash;no power at least of which the father
could avail himself,&mdash;would turn him.

<p>On that same day Melmotte received two visits in the city from
two of his fellow directors.&nbsp; At the time he was very
busy.&nbsp; Though his electioneering speeches were neither long
nor pithy, still he had to think of them beforehand.&nbsp; Members
of his Committee were always trying to see him.&nbsp; Orders as to
the dinner and the preparation of the house could not be given by
Lord Alfred without some reference to him.&nbsp; And then those
gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in the last
chapter could not be adjusted without much labour on his
part.&nbsp; His hands were not empty, but still he saw each of
these young men,&mdash;for a few minutes.&nbsp; "My dear young friend,
what can I do for you?" he said to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so
that Sir Felix also should remain standing.

<p>"About that money, Mr Melmotte?"

<p>"What money, my dear fellow?&nbsp; You see that a good many
money matters pass through my hands."

<p>"The thousand pounds I gave you for shares.&nbsp; If you don't
mind, and as the shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money
back."

<p>"It was only the other day you had &pound;200," said Melmotte,
showing that he could apply his memory to small transactions when
he pleased.

<p>"Exactly;&mdash;and you might as well let me have the &pound;800."

<p>"I've ordered the shares;&mdash;gave the order to my broker the other
day."

<p>"Then I'd better take the shares," said Sir Felix, feeling that
it might very probably be that day fortnight before he could start
for New York.&nbsp; "Could I get them, Mr Melmotte?"

<p>"My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value
of my time when you come to me about such an affair as this."

<p>"I'd like to have the money or the shares," said Sir Felix, who
was not specially averse to quarrelling with Mr Melmotte now that
he had resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York
in direct opposition to his written promise.&nbsp; Their quarrel
would be so thoroughly internecine when the departure should be
discovered, that any present anger could hardly increase its
bitterness.&nbsp; What Felix thought of now was simply his money,
and the best means of getting it out of Melmotte's hands.

<p>"You're a spendthrift," said Melmotte, apparently relenting,
"and I'm afraid a gambler.&nbsp; I suppose I must give you &pound;
200 more on account."

<p>Sir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and
consented to take the sum offered.&nbsp; As he pocketed the cheque
he asked for the name of the brokers who were employed to buy the
shares.&nbsp; But here Melmotte demurred "No, my friend," said
Melmotte; "you are only entitled to shares for &pound;600 pounds
now.&nbsp; I will see that the thing is put right."&nbsp; So Sir
Felix departed with &pound;200 only.&nbsp; Marie had said that she
could get &pound;200.&nbsp; Perhaps if he bestirred himself and
wrote to some of Miles's big relations he could obtain payment of a
part of that gentleman's debt to him.

<p>Sir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul
Montague coming up.&nbsp; Carbury, on the spur of the moment,
thought that he would "take a rise" as he called it out of
Montague.&nbsp; "What's this I hear about a lady at Islington?" he
asked.

<p>"Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?"

<p>"A little bird.&nbsp; There are always little birds about
telling of ladies.&nbsp; I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on
your coming marriage."

<p>"Then you've been told an infernal falsehood," said Montague
passing on.&nbsp; He paused a moment and added, "I don't know who
can have told you, but if you hear it again, I'll trouble you to
contradict it."&nbsp; As he was waiting in Melmotte's outer room
while the duke's nephew went in to see whether it was the great
man's pleasure to see him, he remembered whence Carbury must have
heard tidings of Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Of course the rumour had come
through Ruby Ruggles.

<p>Miles Grendall brought out word that the great man would see Mr
Montague; but he added a caution.&nbsp; "He's awfully full of work
just now,&mdash;you won't forget that;&mdash;will you?"&nbsp; Montague assured
the duke's nephew that he would be concise, and was shown in.

<p>"I should not have troubled you," said Paul, "only that I
understood that I was to see you before the Board met."

<p>"Exactly;&mdash;of course.&nbsp; It was quite necessary,&mdash;only you see I
am a little busy.&nbsp; If this d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;d
dinner were over I shouldn't mind.&nbsp; It's a deal easier to make
a treaty with an Emperor, than to give him a dinner; I can tell you
that.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;let me see.&nbsp; Oh;&mdash;I was proposing that you
should go out to Pekin?"

<p>"To Mexico."

<p>"Yes, yes;&mdash;to Mexico.&nbsp; I've so many things running in my
head!&nbsp; Well;&mdash;if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll
draw up something of instructions.&nbsp; You'd know better,
however, than we can tell you, what to do.&nbsp; You'll see Fisker,
of course.&nbsp; You and Fisker will manage it.&nbsp; The chief
thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh?&nbsp; We must get that
passed at the next Board."

<p>Mr Melmotte had been so quick that Montague had been unable to
interrupt him.&nbsp; "There need be no trouble about that, Mr
Melmotte, as I have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I
should go."

<p>"Oh, indeed!"

<p>There had been a shade of doubt on Montague's mind, till the
tone in which Melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his
ears.&nbsp; The reference to the expenses disgusted him
altogether.&nbsp; "No;&mdash;even did I see my way to do any good in
America my duties here would not be compatible with the
undertaking."

<p>"I don't see that at all.&nbsp; What duties have you got
here?&nbsp; What good are you doing the Company?&nbsp; If you do
stay, I hope you'll be unanimous; that's all;&mdash;or perhaps you intend
to go out.&nbsp; If that's it, I'll look to your money.&nbsp; I
think I told you that before."

<p>"That, Mr Melmotte, is what I should prefer."

<p>"Very well,&mdash;very well.&nbsp; I'll arrange it.&nbsp; Sorry to
lose you,&mdash;that's all.&nbsp; Miles, isn't Mr Goldsheiner waiting to
see me?"

<p>"You're a little too quick, Mr Melmotte," said Paul.

<p>"A man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir."

<p>"But I must be precise.&nbsp; I cannot tell you as a fact that I
shall withdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend
with whom I am consulting.&nbsp; I hardly yet know what my duty may
be."

<p>"I'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty.&nbsp; It cannot
be your duty to make known out of that Board-room any of the
affairs of the Company which you have learned in that
Board-room.&nbsp; It cannot be your duty to divulge the
circumstances of the Company or any differences which may exist
between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman who is a
stranger to the Company.&nbsp; It cannot be your duty."

<p>"Thank you, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; On matters such as that I think
that I can see my own way.&nbsp; I have been in fault in coming in
to the Board without understanding what duties I should have to
perform&mdash;."

<p>"Very much in fault, I should say," replied Melmotte, whose
arrogance in the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him.

<p>"But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or
how far I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do
not want advice from you."

<p>"Very well;&mdash;very well.&nbsp; I can't ask you to stay, because a
partner from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is
waiting to see me, about matters which are rather more important
than this of yours."&nbsp; Montague had said what he had to say,
and departed.

<p>On the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the
meeting of the Board of Directors, old Mr Longestaffe called in
Abchurch Lane.&nbsp; He was received very civilly by Miles
Grendall, and asked to sit down.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte quite expected
him, and would walk with him over to the offices of the railway,
and introduce him to the Board.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe, with some
shyness, intimated his desire to have a few moments conversation
with the chairman before the Board met.&nbsp; Fearing his son,
especially fearing Squercum, he had made up his mind to suggest
that the little matter about Pickering Park should be
settled.&nbsp; Miles assured him that the opportunity should be
given him, but that at the present moment the chief secretary of
the Russian Legation was with Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; Either the chief
secretary was very tedious with his business, or else other big men
must have come in, for Mr Longestaffe was not relieved till he was
summoned to walk off to the Board five minutes after the hour at
which the Board should have met.&nbsp; He thought that he could
explain his views in the street; but on the stairs they were joined
by Mr Cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in the Board
room.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe was then presented, and took the chair
opposite to Miles Grendall.&nbsp; Montague was not there, but had
sent a letter to the secretary explaining that for reasons with
which the chairman was acquainted he should absent himself from the
present meeting.&nbsp; "All right," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "I know
all about it.&nbsp; Go on.&nbsp; I'm not sure but that Mr
Montague's retirement from among us may be an advantage.&nbsp; He
could not be made to understand that unanimity in such an
enterprise as this is essential.&nbsp; I am confident that the new
director whom I have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day
will not sin in the same direction."&nbsp; Then Mr Melmotte bowed
and smiled very sweetly on Mr Longestaffe.

<p>Mr Longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was
done, and how very little he had been called on to do.&nbsp; Miles
Grendall had read something out of a book which he had been unable
to follow.&nbsp; Then the chairman had read some figures.&nbsp; Mr
Cohenlupe had declared that their prosperity was unprecedented;&mdash;and
the Board was over.&nbsp; When Mr Longestaffe explained to Miles
Grendall that he still wished to speak to Mr Melmotte, Miles
explained to him that the chairman had been obliged to run off to a
meeting of gentlemen connected with the interior of Africa, which
was now being held at the Cannon Street Hotel.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="46"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLVI.&nbsp; Roger Carbury and His Two Friends</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Roger Carbury, having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained
that she was at any rate living in a respectable house with her
aunt, returned to Carbury.&nbsp; He had given the girl his advice,
and had done so in a manner that was not altogether
ineffectual.&nbsp; He had frightened her, and had also frightened
Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; He had taught Mrs Pipkin to believe that the new
dispensation was not yet so completely established as to clear her
from all responsibility as to her niece's conduct.&nbsp; Having
done so much, and feeling that there was no more to be done, he
returned home.&nbsp; It was out of the question that he should take
Ruby with him.&nbsp; In the first place she would not have
gone.&nbsp; And then,&mdash;had she gone,&mdash;he would not have known where
to bestow her.&nbsp; For it was now understood throughout
Bungay,&mdash;and the news had spread to Beccles,&mdash;that old Farmer
Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be
received at Sheep's Acre Farm.&nbsp; The squire on his return home
heard all the news from his own housekeeper.&nbsp; John Crumb had
been at the farm and there had been a fierce quarrel between him
and the old man.&nbsp; The old man had called Ruby by every name
that is most distasteful to a woman, and John had stormed and had
sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his
age.&nbsp; He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby,&mdash;or if he did he
was ready to forgive that harm.&nbsp; But as for the
Baro-nite;&mdash;the Baro-nite had better look to himself!&nbsp; Old
Ruggles had declared that Ruby should never have a shilling of his
money;&mdash;whereupon Crumb had anathematised old Ruggles and his money
too, telling him that he was an old hunx, and that he had driven
the girl away by his cruelty.&nbsp; Roger at once sent over to
Bungay for the dealer in meal, who was with him early on the
following morning.

<p>"Did ye find her, squoire?"

<p>"Oh, yes, Mr Crumb, I found her.&nbsp; She's living with her
aunt, Mrs Pipkin, at Islington."

<p>"Eh, now;&mdash;look at that."

<p>"You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London."

<p>"Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire.&nbsp; I a' heard tell of Mrs
Pipkin, but I never see'd her."

<p>"I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go
there."&nbsp; John Crumb scratched his head, as though
acknowledging the shortcoming of his own intellect.&nbsp; "Of
course if she was to go to London it was the proper thing for her
to do."

<p>"I knew she'd do the thing as was right.&nbsp; I said that all
along.&nbsp; Darned if I didn't.&nbsp; You ask Mixet, squoire,&mdash;him
as is baker down Bardsey Lane.&nbsp; I allays guy' it her that
she'd do the thing as was right.&nbsp; But how about she and the
Baro-nite?"

<p>Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at
present.&nbsp; "I suppose the old man down here did ill-use her?"

<p>"Oh, dreadful;&mdash;there ain't no manner of doubt o' that.&nbsp;
Dragged her about awful;&mdash;as he ought to be took up, only for the
rumpus like.&nbsp; D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's
been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?"

<p>"I think she's a good girl, if you mean that."

<p>"I'm sure she be.&nbsp; I don't want none to tell me that,
squoire.&nbsp; Tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note
to hear you say so.&nbsp; I allays had a leaning to you, squoire;
but I'll more nor lean to you, now.&nbsp; I've said all through she
was good, and if e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't&mdash;; well, I was
there and ready."

<p>"I hope nobody has said so."

<p>"You can't stop them women, squoire.&nbsp; There ain't no
dropping into them.&nbsp; But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be
missus of my house to-morrow, and what'll it matter her then what
they say?&nbsp; But, squoire did ye hear if the Baro-nite had been
a' hanging about that place?"

<p>"About Islington, you mean."

<p>"He goes a hanging about; he do.&nbsp; He don't come out
straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the
parish.&nbsp; There ain't one in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor
yet in all the Ilketsals and all the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm
set on Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; Huggery-Muggery is pi'son to me,
squoire."

<p>"We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made
up your mind."

<p>"I hove.&nbsp; It's made up ever so as to Ruby.&nbsp; What sort
of a one is her aunt now, squoire?"

<p>"She keeps lodgings;&mdash;a very decent sort of a woman I should
say."

<p>"She won't let the Baro-nite come there?"

<p>"Certainly not," said Roger, who felt that he was hardly dealing
sincerely with this most sincere of meal-men.&nbsp; Hitherto he had
shuffled off every question that had been asked him about Felix,
though he knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable
lover.&nbsp; "Mrs Pipkin won't let him come there."

<p>"If I was to give her a ge'own now,&mdash;or a blue cloak;&mdash;them
lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;&mdash;or a chest of
drawers like, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o'
my side, squoire?"

<p>"I think she'll try to do her duty without that."

<p>"They do like things the like o' that; any ways I'll go up,
squoire, arter Sax'nam market, and see how things is lying."

<p>"I wouldn't go just yet, Mr Crumb, if I were you.&nbsp; She
hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet."

<p>"I said nothing as wasn't as kind as kind."

<p>"But her own perversity runs in her own head.&nbsp; If you had
been unkind she could have forgiven that; but as you were
good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that."&nbsp; John
Crumb again scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a
woman's character required more gauging than he had yet given to
it.&nbsp; "And to tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a
little hardship up at Mrs Pipkin's will do her good."

<p>"Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?" asked John Crumb, with
intense anxiety.

<p>"I don't quite mean that.&nbsp; I dare say she has enough to
eat.&nbsp; But of course she has to work for it with her
aunt.&nbsp; She has three or four children to look after."

<p>"That moight come in handy by-and-by;&mdash;moightn't it, squoire?"
said John Crumb grinning.

<p>"As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to
her in another sphere.&nbsp; Of course there is a good deal to do,
and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that
your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs Pipkin's kitchen
in London."

<p>"My little back parlour;&mdash;eh, squoire!&nbsp; And I've got a
four-poster, most as big as any in Bungay."

<p>"I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she
knows it herself.&nbsp; Let her think about all that,&mdash;and do you
go and tell her again in a month's time.&nbsp; She'll be more
willing to settle matters then than she is now."

<p>"But the Baro-nite!"

<p>"Mrs Pipkin will allow nothing of that."

<p>"Girls is so 'cute.&nbsp; Ruby is awful 'cute.&nbsp; It makes me
feel as though I had two hun'erdweight o' meal on my stomach, lying
awake o' nights and thinking as how he is, may be,&mdash;pulling of her
about!&nbsp; If I thought that she'd let him&mdash;; oh!&nbsp; I'd swing
for it, Muster Carbury.&nbsp; They'd have to make an eend o' me at
Bury, if it was that way.&nbsp; They would then."

<p>Roger assured him again and again that he believed Ruby to be a
good girl, and promised that further steps should be taken to
induce Mrs Pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece.&nbsp; John
Crumb made no promise that he would abstain from his journey to
London after Saxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction
that his purpose of doing so was shaken.&nbsp; He was still however
resolved to send Mrs Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and
declared his purpose of getting Mixet to write the letter and
enclose the money order.&nbsp; John Crumb had no delicacy as to
declaring his own deficiency in literary acquirements.&nbsp; He was
able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, but did little beyond
that in the way of writing letters.

<p>This happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon Roger
Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church
matters at which his friend the bishop presided.&nbsp; After the
meeting was over he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen
and two or three neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by
himself on to the long strand which has made Lowestoft what it
is.&nbsp; It was now just the end of June, and the weather was
delightful;&mdash;but people were not as yet flocking to the
sea-shore.&nbsp; Every shopkeeper in every little town through the
country now follows the fashion set by Parliament and abstains from
his annual holiday till August or September.&nbsp; The place
therefore was by no means full.&nbsp; Here and there a few of the
townspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to
the sea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to
fashion, had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel,
which had been described as being small and insignificant,&mdash;and
making up only a hundred beds.&nbsp; Roger Carbury, whose house was
not many miles distant from Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore,
and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought
him into the town.&nbsp; Now he was walking close down upon the
marge of the tide,&mdash;so that the last little roll of the rising
water should touch his feet,&mdash;with his hands joined behind his
back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon
a couple who were standing with their backs to the land, looking
forth together upon the waves.&nbsp; He was close to them before he
saw them, and before they had seen him.&nbsp; Then he perceived
that the man was his friend Paul Montague.&nbsp; Leaning on Paul's
arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark straw
hat on her head;&mdash;very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom
it would be impossible to pass without notice.&nbsp; The lady of
course was Mrs Hurtle.

<p>Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his
folly had been natural.&nbsp; It was not the first place he had
named; but when fault had been found with others, he had fallen
back upon the sea sands which were best known to himself.&nbsp;
Lowestoft was just the spot which Mrs Hurtle required.&nbsp; When
she had been shown her room, and taken down out of the hotel on to
the strand, she had declared herself to be charmed.&nbsp; She
acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had no right
to expect that Mrs Pipkin should understand what sort of place she
needed.&nbsp; But Paul would understand,&mdash;and had understood.&nbsp;
"I think the hotel charming," she said.&nbsp; "I don't know what
you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this
quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!"&nbsp; Hotel people always
are civil before the crowds come.&nbsp; Of course it was impossible
that Paul should return to London by the mail train which started
about an hour after his arrival.&nbsp; He would have reached London
at four or five in the morning, and have been very
uncomfortable.&nbsp; The following day was Sunday, and of course he
promised to stay till Monday.&nbsp; Of course he had said nothing
in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to
say.&nbsp; Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came
upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some
probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and
the endless ripples which connected shore with shore.&nbsp; Mrs
Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm,
indulged also in moonshine and romance.&nbsp; Though at the back of
the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they
enjoyed the hour.&nbsp; We know that the man who is to be hung
likes to have his breakfast well cooked.&nbsp; And so did Paul like
the companionship of Mrs Hurtle because her attire, though simple,
was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because
of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her
words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips.&nbsp; He
liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her
arm, and the perfume from her hair,&mdash;though he would have given all
that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some
impassable gulf.&nbsp; As he had to be hanged,&mdash;and this woman's
continued presence would be as bad as death to him,&mdash;he liked to
have his meal well dressed.

<p>He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and
the close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;&mdash;and now he felt his
folly.&nbsp; As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his
forehead, and then leaving Mrs Hurtle's arm he came forward, and
shook hands with his friend.&nbsp; "It is Mrs Hurtle," he said, "I
must introduce you," and the introduction was made.&nbsp; Roger
took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest
ceremony.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the
minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her
acknowledgment of the courtesy.&nbsp; In former days she had heard
much of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to
her.&nbsp; "I did not know that you were thinking of coming to
Lowestoft," said Roger in a voice that was needlessly
severe.&nbsp; But his mind at the present moment was severe, and he
could not hide his mind.

<p>"I was not thinking of it.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle wished to get to the
sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her."

<p>"Mr Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before
now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much
difference."

<p>"Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same voice.

<p>"I go back probably on Monday," said Montague.

<p>"As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to
any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his
company on me for two days.&nbsp; Will you join us at dinner, Mr
Carbury, this evening?"

<p>"Thank you, madam;&mdash;I have dined."

<p>"Then, Mr Montague, I will leave you with your friend.&nbsp; My
toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than
yours.&nbsp; We dine you know in twenty minutes.&nbsp; I wish you
could get your friend to join us."&nbsp; So saying, Mrs Hurtle
tripped back across the sand towards the hotel.

<p>"Is this wise?" demanded Roger in a voice that was almost
sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing.

<p>"You may well ask that, Carbury.&nbsp; Nobody knows the folly of
it so thoroughly as I do."

<p>"Then why do you do it?&nbsp; Do you mean to marry her?"

<p>"No; certainly not."

<p>"Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with
her in this way?&nbsp; Does she think that you intend to marry
her?"

<p>"I have told her that I would not.&nbsp; I have told
her&mdash;."&nbsp; Then he stopped.&nbsp; He was going on to declare
that he had told her that he loved another woman, but he felt that
he could hardly touch that matter in speaking to Roger Carbury.

<p>"What does she mean then?&nbsp; Has she no regard for her own
character?"

<p>"I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could.&nbsp; But
you would never have the patience to hear me."

<p>"I am not naturally impatient."

<p>"But this would drive you mad.&nbsp; I wrote to her assuring her
that it must be all over.&nbsp; Then she came here and sent for
me.&nbsp; Was I not bound to go to her?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter."

<p>"I did do so.&nbsp; I went with that very purpose, and did
repeat it."

<p>"Then you should have left her."

<p>"Ah; but you do not understand.&nbsp; She begged that I would
not desert her in her loneliness.&nbsp; We have been so much
together that I could not desert her."

<p>"I certainly do not understand that, Paul.&nbsp; You have
allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and
then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both
thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise,
thinking that you would be justified in doing so.&nbsp; But nothing
can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as
to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good."

<p>"She does not think so.&nbsp; She cannot think so."

<p>"Then what must she be, to be here with you?&nbsp; And what must
you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is?&nbsp; I
don't know why I should trouble you or myself about it.&nbsp;
People live now in a way that I don't comprehend.&nbsp; If this be
your way of living, I have no right to complain."

<p>"For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way.&nbsp; It
sounds as though you meant to throw me over."

<p>"I should have said that you had thrown me over.&nbsp; You come
down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady
whom you are not going to marry;&mdash;and I meet you, just by
chance.&nbsp; Had I known it, of course I could have turned the
other way.&nbsp; But coming on you by accident, as I did, how am I
not to speak to you?&nbsp; And if I speak, what am I to say?&nbsp;
Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you."

<p>"Never."

<p>"And that such a marriage will be your destruction.&nbsp;
Doubtless she is good-looking."

<p>"Yes, and clever.&nbsp; And you must remember that the manners
of her country are not as the manners of this country."

<p>"Then if I marry at all," said Roger, with all his prejudice
expressed strongly in his voice, "I trust I may not marry a lady of
her country.&nbsp; She does not think that she is to marry you, and
yet she comes down here and stays with you.&nbsp; Paul, I don't
believe it.&nbsp; I believe you, but I don't believe her.&nbsp; She
is here with you in order that she may marry you.&nbsp; She is
cunning and strong.&nbsp; You are foolish and weak.&nbsp; Believing
as I do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell
her my mind,&mdash;and leave her."&nbsp; Paul at the moment thought of
the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain difficulties in
leaving.&nbsp; "That's what I should do.&nbsp; You must go in now,
I suppose, and eat your dinner."

<p>"I may come to the hall as I go back home?"

<p>"Certainly you may come if you please," said Roger.&nbsp; Then
he bethought himself that his welcome had not been cordial.&nbsp;
"I mean that I shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching
away along the strand.&nbsp; Paul did go into the hotel, and did
eat his dinner.&nbsp; In the meantime Roger Carbury marched far
away along the strand.&nbsp; In all that he had said to Montague he
had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to be the
truth.&nbsp; He had not been influenced for a moment by any
reference to his own affairs.&nbsp; And yet he feared, he almost
knew, that this man,&mdash;who had promised to marry a strange American
woman and who was at this very moment living in close intercourse
with the woman after he had told her that he would not keep his
promise,&mdash;was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that
he loved.&nbsp; As he had listened to John Crumb while John spoke
of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he and John Crumb were
alike.&nbsp; With an honest, true, heartfelt desire they both
panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom each had
chosen.&nbsp; And each was to be thwarted by the make-believe
regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks!&nbsp; Crumb, by
dogged perseverance and indifference to many things, would probably
be successful at last.&nbsp; But what chance was there of success
for him?&nbsp; Ruby, as soon as want or hardship told upon her,
would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide her
with plenty and comparative ease.&nbsp; But Hetta Carbury, if once
her heart had passed from her own dominion into the possession of
another, would never change her love.&nbsp; It was possible, no
doubt,&mdash;nay, how probable,&mdash;that her heart was still
vacillating.&nbsp; Roger thought that he knew that at any rate she
had not as yet declared her love.&nbsp; If she were now to
know,&mdash;if she could now learn,&mdash;of what nature was the love of this
other man; if she could be instructed that he was living alone with
a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,&mdash;if she could
be made to understand this whole story of Mrs Hurtle, would not
that open her eyes?&nbsp; Would she not then see where she could
trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would
certainly be shipwrecked!

<p>"Never," said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the
beach with his stick.&nbsp; "Never."&nbsp; Then he got his horse
and rode back to Carbury Manor.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="47"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLVII.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle at Lowestoft</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs Hurtle was already
there, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready
to take the cover off the soup.&nbsp; She was radiant with smiles
and made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt
sure that everything was not well with her.&nbsp; Though she
smiled, and talked and laughed, there was something forced in her
manner.&nbsp; He almost knew that she was only waiting till the man
should have left the room to speak in a different strain.&nbsp; And
so it was.&nbsp; As soon as the last lingering dish had been
removed, and when the door was finally shut behind the retreating
waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been on her mind
since she had walked across the strand to the hotel.&nbsp; "Your
friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?"

<p>"Do you mean that he should have come in?&nbsp; I have no doubt
it was true that he had dined."

<p>"I am quite indifferent about his dinner,&mdash;but there are two
ways of declining as there are of accepting.&nbsp; I suppose he is
on very intimate terms with you?"

<p>"Oh, yes."

<p>"Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for
me.&nbsp; In point of fact he disapproves of me.&nbsp; Is not that
it?"&nbsp; To this question Montague did not feel himself called
upon to make any immediate answer.&nbsp; "I can well understand
that it should be so.&nbsp; An intimate friend may like or dislike
the friend of his friend, without offence.&nbsp; But unless there
be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his friend's friend,
when accident brings them together.&nbsp; You have told me that Mr
Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman."

<p>"So he is."

<p>"Then why didn't he behave as such?" and Mrs Hurtle again
smiled.&nbsp; "Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for
coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your
journey?&nbsp; Has he authority over you?"

<p>"Of course he has not.&nbsp; What authority could he have?"

<p>"Nay, I do not know.&nbsp; He may be your guardian.&nbsp; In
this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters
till they are past thirty.&nbsp; I should have said that he was
your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad
company.&nbsp; I dare say he did after I had gone."

<p>This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny
it.&nbsp; Nor was he sure that it would be well that he should deny
it.&nbsp; The time must come, and why not now as well as at any
future moment?&nbsp; He had to make her understand that he could
not join his lot with her,&mdash;chiefly indeed because his heart was
elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardly insist because she
could allege that she had a prior right to his heart;&mdash;but also
because her antecedents had been such as to cause all his friends
to warn him against such a marriage.&nbsp; So he plucked up courage
for the battle.&nbsp; "It was nearly that," he said.

<p>There are many&mdash;and probably the greater portion of my readers
will be among the number,&mdash;who will declare to themselves that Paul
Montague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance
to face this woman with the truth.&nbsp; His folly in falling at
first under the battery of her charms will be forgiven him.&nbsp;
His engagement, unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination
to break his engagement, will be pardoned.&nbsp; Women, and perhaps
some men also, will feel that it was natural that he should have
been charmed, natural that he should have expressed his admiration
in the form which unmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when
any such expression is to be made at all;&mdash;natural also that he
should endeavour to escape from the dilemma when he found the
manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed to take.&nbsp;
No woman, I think, will be hard upon him because of his breach of
faith to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; But they will be very hard on him on the
score of his cowardice,&mdash;as, I think, unjustly.&nbsp; In social
life we hardly stop to consider how much of that daring spirit
which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather than from
high purpose, or true courage.&nbsp; The man who succumbs to his
wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who
succumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a
continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which
causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,&mdash;as by
any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have
produced.&nbsp; There is an inner softness, a thinness of the
mind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the
troubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin
to fear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with
absolute firmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises
so strongly as to assert itself.&nbsp; With this man it was not
really that.&nbsp; He feared the woman;&mdash;or at least such fears did
not prevail upon him to be silent; but he shrank from subjecting
her to the blank misery of utter desertion.&nbsp; After what had
passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that
he wanted her no further and to bid her go.&nbsp; But that was what
he had to do.&nbsp; And for that his answer to her last question
prepared the way.&nbsp; "It was nearly that," he said.

<p>"Mr Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing
yourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?"

<p>"He knew of the letter which I wrote to you."

<p>"You have canvassed me between you?"

<p>"Of course we have.&nbsp; Is that unnatural?&nbsp; Would you
have had me be silent about you to the oldest and the best friend I
have in the world?"

<p>"No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best
friend.&nbsp; I presume you would declare your purpose.&nbsp; But I
should not have supposed you would have asked his leave.&nbsp; When
I was travelling with you, I thought you were a man capable of
managing your own actions.&nbsp; I had heard that in your country
girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their
friends,&mdash;but I did not dream that such could be the case with a
man who had gone out into the world to make his fortune."

<p>Paul Montague did not like it.&nbsp; The punishment to be
endured was being commenced.&nbsp; "Of course you can say bitter
things," he replied.

<p>"Is it my nature to say bitter things?&nbsp; Have I usually said
bitter things to you?&nbsp; When I have hung round your neck and
have sworn that you should be my God upon earth, was that
bitter?&nbsp; I am alone and I have to fight my own battles.&nbsp;
A woman's weapon is her tongue.&nbsp; Say but one word to me, Paul,
as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that
bitterness.&nbsp; What shall I care for Mr Carbury, except to make
him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one
word?&nbsp; And think what it is I am asking.&nbsp; Do you remember
how urgent were once your own prayers to me;&mdash;how you swore that
your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine?&nbsp;
Though I loved you, I doubted.&nbsp; There were considerations of
money, which have now vanished.&nbsp; But I spoke it,&mdash;because I
loved you, and because I believed you.&nbsp; Give me that which you
swore you had given before I made my gift to you."

<p>"I cannot say that word."

<p>"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old
glove?&nbsp; I have had many dealings with men and have found them
to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish.&nbsp; But I have met
nothing like that.&nbsp; No man has ever dared to treat me like
that.&nbsp; No man shall dare."

<p>"I wrote to you."

<p>"Wrote to me;&mdash;yes!&nbsp; And I was to take that as
sufficient!&nbsp; No.&nbsp; I think but little of my life and have
but little for which to live.&nbsp; But while I do live I will
travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it,
before I will put up with it.&nbsp; You wrote to me!&nbsp; Heaven
and earth;&mdash;I can hardly control myself when I hear such
impudence!"&nbsp; She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on
the table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at
a further distance.&nbsp; "Wrote to me!&nbsp; Could any mere letter
of your writing break the bond by which we were bound
together?&nbsp; Had not the distance between us seemed to have made
you safe would you have dared to write that letter?&nbsp; The
letter must be unwritten.&nbsp; It has already been contradicted by
your conduct to me since I have been in this country."

<p>"I am sorry to hear you say that."

<p>"Am I not justified in saying it?"

<p>"I hope not.&nbsp; When I first saw you I told you
everything.&nbsp; If I have been wrong in attending to your wishes
since, I regret it."

<p>"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the
beach.&nbsp; You are acting now under his orders.&nbsp; No doubt he
came with the purpose.&nbsp; Had you told him you were to be here?"

<p>"His coming was an accident."

<p>"It was very opportune at any rate.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;what have you
to say to me?&nbsp; Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself
to have said all that is required of you?&nbsp; Perhaps you would
prefer that I should argue the matter out with your&mdash;friend, Mr
Carbury."

<p>"What has to be said, I believe I can say myself."

<p>"Say it then.&nbsp; Or are you so ashamed of it that the words
stick in your throat?"

<p>"There is some truth in that.&nbsp; I am ashamed of it.&nbsp; I
must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been
to be said, had I been fairly careful."

<p>Then he paused.&nbsp; "Don't spare me," she said.&nbsp; "I know
what it all is as well as though it were already told.&nbsp; I know
the lies with which they have crammed you at San Francisco.&nbsp;
You have heard that up in Oregon&mdash;I shot a man.&nbsp; That is no
lie.&nbsp; I did.&nbsp; I brought him down dead at my feet."&nbsp;
Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him.&nbsp;
"Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to
tell?&nbsp; But not from shame.&nbsp; Do you suppose that the sight
of that dying wretch does not haunt me?&nbsp; that I do not daily
hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and
then fall in a heap just below my hand?&nbsp; But did they tell you
also that it was thus alone that I could save myself,&mdash;and that had
I spared him, I must afterwards have destroyed myself?&nbsp; If I
were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder?&nbsp; Why did
the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my
garments?&nbsp; In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing
of such necessity.&nbsp; A woman here is protected,&mdash;unless it be
from lies."

<p>"It was not that only," he whispered.

<p>"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing
over him.&nbsp; "They told you of quarrels with my husband.&nbsp; I
know the lies, and who made them, and why.&nbsp; Did I conceal from
you the character of my former husband?&nbsp; Did I not tell you
that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel?&nbsp; How should I not
quarrel with such a one?&nbsp; Ah, Paul; you can hardly know what
my life has been."

<p>"They told me that&mdash;you fought him."

<p>"Psha;&mdash;fought him!&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;I was always fighting him.&nbsp;
What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and
fight fraud and treachery,&mdash;when they come upon you and would
overwhelm you but for fighting?&nbsp; You have not been fool enough
to believe that fable about a duel?&nbsp; I did stand once, armed,
and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should
only enter it over my body.&nbsp; He went away to the tavern and I
did not see him for a week afterwards.&nbsp; That was the
duel.&nbsp; And they have told you that he is not dead."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;they have told me that."

<p>"Who has seen him alive?&nbsp; I never said to you that I had
seen him dead.&nbsp; How should I?"

<p>"There would be a certificate."

<p>"Certificate;&mdash;in the back of Texas;&mdash;five hundred miles from
Galveston!&nbsp; And what would it matter to you?&nbsp; I was
divorced from him according to the law of the State of
Kansas.&nbsp; Does not the law make a woman free here to marry
again,&mdash;and why not with us?&nbsp; I sued for a divorce on the
score of cruelty and drunkenness.&nbsp; He made no appearance, and
the Court granted it me.&nbsp; Am I disgraced by that?"

<p>"I heard nothing of the divorce."

<p>"I do not remember.&nbsp; When we were talking of these old days
before, you did not care how short I was in telling my story.&nbsp;
You wanted to hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle.&nbsp;
Now you have become more particular.&nbsp; I told you that he was
dead,&mdash;as I believed myself, and do believe.&nbsp; Whether the
other story was told or not I do not know."

<p>"It was not told."

<p>"Then it was your own fault,&mdash;because you would not
listen.&nbsp; And they have made you believe I suppose that I have
failed in getting back my property?"

<p>"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself
have said unasked.&nbsp; I have asked no question about your
property."

<p>"You are welcome.&nbsp; At last I have made it again my
own.&nbsp; And now, sir, what else is there?&nbsp; I think I have
been open with you.&nbsp; Is it because I protected myself from
drunken violence that I am to be rejected?&nbsp; Am I to be cast
aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate
husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;&mdash;or because
by my own energy I have secured my own property?&nbsp; If I am not
to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

<p>She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story,
but in doing so had left him without a word to say.&nbsp; She had
owned to shooting the man.&nbsp; Well; it certainly may be
necessary that a woman should shoot a man&mdash;especially in
Oregon.&nbsp; As to the duel with her husband,&mdash;she had half denied
and half confessed it.&nbsp; He presumed that she had been armed
with a pistol when she refused Mr Hurtle admittance into the
nuptial chamber.&nbsp; As to the question of Hurtle's death,&mdash;she
had confessed that perhaps he was not dead.&nbsp; But then,&mdash;as she
had asked,&mdash;why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand be
considered as good as a death?&nbsp; He could not say that she had
not washed herself clean;&mdash;and yet, from the story as told by
herself, what man would wish to marry her?&nbsp; She had seen so
much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done
so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate
before he assumed to be her master.&nbsp; "I do not condemn you,"
he replied.

<p>"At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered.&nbsp; "If you
tell me that you will not be my husband, you do condemn me.&nbsp;
Is it not so?"

<p>"I will not lie if I can help it.&nbsp; I did ask you to be my
wife&mdash;"

<p>"Well&mdash;rather.&nbsp; How often before I consented?"

<p>"It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent.&nbsp; I
have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable
for both of us."

<p>"You have."

<p>"I have.&nbsp; Of course, you can speak of me as you please and
think of me as you please.&nbsp; I can hardly defend myself."

<p>"Hardly, I think."

<p>"But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting
for the best in declaring that I will not become&mdash;your husband."

<p>"You will not?"&nbsp; She was still standing, and stretched out
her right hand as though again to grasp something.

<p>He also now rose from his chair.&nbsp; "If I speak with
abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision.&nbsp; I will
not."

<p>"Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man
after man false and cruel as this!&nbsp; You tell me to my face
that I am to bear it!&nbsp; Who is the jade that has done it?&nbsp;
Has she money?&mdash;or rank?&nbsp; Or is it that you are afraid to
have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,&mdash;and even act
for herself if some action be necessary?&nbsp; Perhaps you think
that I am&mdash;old."&nbsp; He was looking at her intently as she spoke,
and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her
face.&nbsp; It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light
play of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed and her eyes
seemed to be deep in her head.&nbsp; "Speak, man,&mdash;is it that you
want a younger wife?"

<p>"You know it is not."

<p>"Know!&nbsp; How should any one know anything from a liar?&nbsp;
From what you tell me I know nothing.&nbsp; I have to gather what I
can from your character.&nbsp; I see that you are a coward.&nbsp;
It is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has
forced you to this.&nbsp; Between me and him you tremble, and are a
thing to be pitied.&nbsp; As for knowing what you would be at, from
anything that you would say,&mdash;that is impossible.&nbsp; Once again
I have come across a mean wretch.&nbsp; Oh, fool!&mdash;that men should
be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world!&nbsp; My
last word to you is, that you are&mdash;a liar.&nbsp; Now for the
present you can go.&nbsp; Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in
my hand I should have shot another man."

<p>Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could
not but think that perhaps Mrs Hurtle might have had some
excuse.&nbsp; It seemed at any rate to be her custom to have a
pistol with her,&mdash;though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it
in her bedroom on the present occasion.&nbsp; "I will say good-bye
to you," he said, when he had found his hat.

<p>"Say no such thing.&nbsp; Tell me that you have triumphed and
got rid of me.&nbsp; Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and
show me your joy.&nbsp; Tell me that an Englishman has dared to
ill-treat an American woman.&nbsp; You would,&mdash;were you not afraid
to indulge yourself."&nbsp; He was now standing in the doorway, and
before he escaped she gave him an imperative command.&nbsp; "I
shall not stay here now," she said&mdash;"I shall return on
Monday.&nbsp; I must think of what you have said, and must resolve
what I myself will do.&nbsp; I shall not bear this without seeking
a means of punishing you for your treachery.&nbsp; I shall expect
you to come to me on Monday."

<p>He closed the door as he answered her.&nbsp; "I do not see that
it will serve any purpose."

<p>"It is for me, sir, to judge of that.&nbsp; I suppose you are
not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me.&nbsp; If
so, I shall come to you; and you may be assured that I shall not be
too timid to show myself and to tell my story."&nbsp; He ended by
saying that if she desired it he would wait upon her, but that he
would not at present fix a day.&nbsp; On his return to town he
would write to her.

<p>When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile.&nbsp;
Then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back
against the door and with her hands clasped.&nbsp; After a few
moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face
in her hands upon the table.&nbsp; Then she gave way to a flood of
tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.

<p>Was this to be the end of it?&nbsp; Should she never know
rest;&mdash;never have one draught of cool water between her lips?&nbsp;
Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her
life?&nbsp; In almost all that she had said she had spoken the
truth, though doubtless not all the truth,&mdash;as which among us would
in giving the story of his life?&nbsp; She had endured violence,
and had been violent.&nbsp; She had been schemed against, and had
schemed.&nbsp; She had fitted herself to the life which had
befallen her.&nbsp; But in regard to money, she had been honest and
she had been loving of heart.&nbsp; With her heart of hearts she
had loved this young Englishman;&mdash;and now, after all her scheming,
all her daring, with all her charms, this was to be the end of
it!&nbsp; Oh, what a journey would this be which she must now make
back to her own country, all alone!

<p>But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that
of disappointed love.&nbsp; Full as had been the vials of wrath
which she had poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had
been the storm of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had
been after all something counterfeited in her indignation.&nbsp;
But her love was no counterfeit.&nbsp; At any moment if he would
have returned to her and taken her in his arms, she would not only
have forgiven him but have blessed him also for his kindness.&nbsp;
She was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and
unfeminine words.&nbsp; When driven by wrongs the old habit came
back upon her.&nbsp; But if she could only escape the wrongs, if
she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to
her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all
the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,&mdash;then, she thought she
could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl.&nbsp; When
she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in
being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last
be open to her.&nbsp; But the reek of the gunpowder from that first
pistol shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as
she had often told herself before, that it would have been better
for her to have turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

<p>After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told
herself was a vain chance.&nbsp; Though angry enough when that
letter first reached her, she had, with that force of character
which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his
part was natural.&nbsp; In marrying her he must give up all his old
allies, all his old haunts.&nbsp; The whole world must be changed
to him.&nbsp; She knew enough of herself, and enough of
Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past life should be known,
as it would be known, she would be avoided in England.&nbsp; With
all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the
old country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the
minds of American men and women, an almost envious admiration of
English excellence.&nbsp; To have been allowed to forget the past
and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven to
her.&nbsp; But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared
in the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become
almost a proverb for violence out in the far West,&mdash;how could she
dare to hope that her lot should be so changed for her?

<p>She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often
before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him
that that hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own
unfitness.&nbsp; But it had been so.&nbsp; Circumstances had made
her what she was.&nbsp; Circumstances had been cruel to her.&nbsp;
But she could not now alter them.&nbsp; Then gradually, as she came
to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she
told herself that she would be changed.&nbsp; She had, however,
almost known that it could not be so.&nbsp; But this man had
relatives, had business, had property in her own country.&nbsp;
Though she could not be made happy in England, might not a
prosperous life be opened for him in the far West?&nbsp; Then had
risen the offer of that journey to Mexico with much probability
that work of no ordinary kind might detain him there for
years.&nbsp; With what joy would she have accompanied him as his
wife!&nbsp; For that at any rate she would have been fit.

<p>She was conscious, perhaps too conscious, of her own
beauty.&nbsp; That at any rate, she felt, had not deserted
her.&nbsp; She was hardly aware that time was touching it.&nbsp;
And she knew herself to be clever, capable of causing happiness,
and mirth and comfort.&nbsp; She had the qualities of a good
comrade&mdash;which are so much in a woman.&nbsp; She knew all this of
herself.&nbsp; If he and she could be together in some country in
which those stories of her past life would be matter of
indifference, could she not make him happy?&nbsp; But what was she
that a man should give up everything and go away and spend his days
in some half-barbarous country for her alone?&nbsp; She knew it all
and was hardly angry with him in that he had decided against
her.&nbsp; But treated as she had been she must play her game with
such weapons as she possessed.&nbsp; It was consonant with her old
character, it was consonant with her present plans that she should
at any rate seem to be angry.

<p>Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but
the plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was
the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her
fondest love, and telling him that he was right.&nbsp; She did
write the letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not
have the strength to send it to him.&nbsp; The reader may judge
with what feeling she wrote the following words:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR PAUL<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You are right and I am wrong.&nbsp;
Our marriage would not have been fitting.&nbsp; I do not blame
you.&nbsp; I attracted you when we were together; but you have
learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your
life for such attractions.&nbsp; If I have been violent with you,
forgive me.&nbsp; You will acknowledge that I have suffered.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Always know that there is one woman
who will love you better than any one else.&nbsp; I think too that
you will love me even when some other woman is by your side.&nbsp;
God bless you, and make you happy.&nbsp; Write me the shortest,
shortest word of adieu.&nbsp; Not to do so would make you think
yourself heartless.&nbsp; But do not come to me.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For ever<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;W. H.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it
twice, she put it into her pocket-book.&nbsp; She told herself that
she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could
not bring herself to do so.&nbsp; It was early in the morning
before she went to bed but she had admitted no one into the room
after Montague had left her.

<p>Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the
sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a
conveyance to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning.&nbsp;
At breakfast he presented himself to the squire.&nbsp; "I have come
earlier than you expected," he said.

<p>"Yes, indeed;&mdash;much earlier.&nbsp; Are you going back to
Lowestoft?"

<p>Then he told the whole story.&nbsp; Roger expressed his
satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to
his return.&nbsp; "Let her follow you, and bear it," he said.&nbsp;
"Of course you must suffer the effects of your own
imprudence."&nbsp; On that evening Paul Montague returned to London
by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting
with Mrs Hurtle in the railway-carriage.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="48"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLVIII.&nbsp; Ruby a Prisoner</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the
dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to
see him again.&nbsp; But when reflection came with the morning her
misery was stronger than her wrath.&nbsp; What would life be to her
now without her lover?&nbsp; When she escaped from her
grandfather's house she certainly had not intended to become nurse
and assistant maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house.&nbsp; The
daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was
supported by the prospect of some coming delight.&nbsp; A dance
with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three days distant
from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress
all the children without complaint.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was forced to
own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread.&nbsp; But when she had
parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were
never to meet again, things were very different with her.&nbsp; And
perhaps she had been wrong.&nbsp; A gentleman like Sir Felix did
not of course like to be told about marriage.&nbsp; If she gave him
another chance, perhaps he would speak.&nbsp; At any rate she could
not live without another dance.&nbsp; And so she wrote him a
letter.

<p>Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will
hardly bear repeating.&nbsp; She underscored all her loves to
him.&nbsp; She underscored the expression of her regret if she had
vexed him.&nbsp; She did not want to hurry a gentleman.&nbsp; But
she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall.&nbsp; Would
he be there next Saturday?&nbsp; Sir Felix sent her a very short
reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the
Tuesday.&nbsp; As at this time he proposed to leave London on the
Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his
very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.

<p>Mrs Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters.&nbsp;
It is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women
shall send and receive letters without inspection.&nbsp; But since
Roger Carbury's visit Mrs Pipkin had watched the postman, and had
also watched her niece.&nbsp; For nearly a week Ruby said not a
word of going out at night.&nbsp; She took the children for an
airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as Holloway, with
exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her
mind was intent upon them.&nbsp; But Mrs Pipkin's mind was intent
on obeying Mr Carbury's behests.&nbsp; She had already hinted
something as to which Ruby had made no answer.&nbsp; It was her
purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,&mdash;should she
find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the
evening,&mdash;that she should be kept out the whole night, having a
purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath
should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at
home.&nbsp; But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to
deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck Mrs
Pipkin's mind.&nbsp; Ruby had been careless,&mdash;had left her lover's
scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the
children, and Mrs Pipkin knew all about it.&nbsp; It was nine
o'clock when Ruby went upstairs,&mdash;and then Mrs Pipkin locked both
the front door and the area gate.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had come home on
the previous day.&nbsp; "You won't be wanting to go out
to-night;&mdash;will you, Mrs Hurtle?" said Mrs Pipkin, knocking at her
lodger's door.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining
at home all the evening.&nbsp; "If you should hear words between me
and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am."

<p>"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs Pipkin?"

<p>"She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it.&nbsp; It
isn't right; is it, ma'am?&nbsp; She's a good girl; but they've got
such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't
know what's going to come next."&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin must have feared
downright rebellion when she thus took her lodger into her
confidence.

<p>Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and
made her usual little speech.&nbsp; "I'm just going to step out,
aunt, for a little time to-night.&nbsp; I've got the key, and I'll
let myself in quite quiet."

<p>"Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs Pipkin.

<p>"Won't what, aunt?"

<p>"Won't let yourself in, if you go out.&nbsp; If you go out
to-night you'll stay out.&nbsp; That's all about it.&nbsp; If you
go out to-night you won't come back here any more.&nbsp; I won't
have it, and it isn't right that I should.&nbsp; You're going after
that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all
England."

<p>"They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin."

<p>"Very well.&nbsp; No girl is going out any more at nights out of
my house; so that's all about it.&nbsp; If you had told me you was
going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened
yourself.&nbsp; For now it's all to take off again."

<p>Ruby could hardly believe it.&nbsp; She had expected some
opposition,&mdash;what she would have called a few words; but she had
never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the
streets all night.&nbsp; It seemed to her that she had bought the
privilege of amusing herself by hard work.&nbsp; Nor did she
believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat.&nbsp;
"I've a right to go if I like," she said.

<p>"That's as you think.&nbsp; You haven't a right to come back
again, any way."

<p>"Yes, I have.&nbsp; I've worked for you a deal harder than the
girl downstairs, and I don't want no wages.&nbsp; I've a right to
go out, and a right to come back;&mdash;and go I shall."

<p>"You'll be no better than you should be, if you do."

<p>"Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator
about all day till my legs won't carry me,&mdash;and then I ain't to go
out, not once in a week?"

<p>"Not unless I know more about it, Ruby.&nbsp; I won't have you
go and throw yourself into the gutter;&mdash;not while you're with me."

<p>"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter?&nbsp; I've thrown
myself into no gutter.&nbsp; I know what I'm about."

<p>"There's two of us that way, Ruby;&mdash;for I know what I'm about."

<p>"I shall just go then."&nbsp; And Ruby walked off towards the
door.

<p>"You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's
locked;&mdash;and the area gate.&nbsp; You'd better be said, Ruby, and
just take your things off."

<p>Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with
mortification.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin had given her credit for more
outrageous perseverance than she possessed, and had feared that she
would rattle at the front door, or attempt to climb over the area
gate.&nbsp; She was a little afraid of Ruby, not feeling herself
justified in holding absolute dominion over her as over a
servant.&nbsp; And though she was now determined in her
conduct,&mdash;being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys
which she held in her pocket,&mdash;still she feared that she might so
far collapse as to fall away into tears, should Ruby be
violent.&nbsp; But Ruby was crushed.&nbsp; Her lover would be there
to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by her!&nbsp;
"Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once."

<p>"No, Ruby;&mdash;it ain't proper."

<p>"You don't know what you're a doing of, aunt; you don't.&nbsp;
You'll ruin me,&mdash;you will.&nbsp; Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do!&nbsp;
I'll never ask again, if you don't like."

<p>Mrs Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to
yield.&nbsp; But Mr Carbury had spoken so very plainly!&nbsp; "It
ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it."

<p>"And I'm to be&mdash;a prisoner!&nbsp; What have I done to be&mdash;a
prisoner?&nbsp; I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up."

<p>"I've a right to lock my own doors."

<p>"Then I shall go away to-morrow."

<p>"I can't help that, my dear.&nbsp; The door will be open
to-morrow, if you choose to go out."

<p>"Then why not open it to-night?&nbsp; Where's the
difference?"&nbsp; But Mrs Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood
of tears, took herself up to her garret.

<p>Mrs Pipkin knocked at Mrs Hurtle's door again.&nbsp; "She's gone
to bed," she said.

<p>"I'm glad to hear it.&nbsp; There wasn't any noise about
it;&mdash;was there?"

<p>"Not as I expected, Mrs Hurtle, certainly.&nbsp; But she was put
out a bit.&nbsp; Poor girl!&nbsp; I've been a girl too, and used to
like a bit of outing as well as any one,&mdash;and a dance too; only it
was always when mother knew.&nbsp; She ain't got a mother, poor
dear!&nbsp; and as good as no father.&nbsp; And she's got it into
her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry
her."

<p>"She is pretty!"

<p>"But what's beauty, Mrs Hurtle?&nbsp; It's no more nor skin
deep, as the scriptures tell us.&nbsp; And what'd a grand gentleman
see in Ruby to marry her?&nbsp; She says she'll leave to-morrow."

<p>"And where will she go?"

<p>"Just nowhere.&nbsp; After this gentleman,&mdash;and you know what
that means!&nbsp; You're going to be married yourself, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"We won't mind about that now, Mrs Pipkin."

<p>"And this'll be your second, and you know how these things are
managed.&nbsp; No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after
him.&nbsp; Girls as knows what they're about should let the
gentlemen run after them.&nbsp; That's my way of looking at it."

<p>"Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?"

<p>"Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after
the gentlemen.&nbsp; A gentlemen goes here and he goes there, and
he speaks up free, of course.&nbsp; In my time, girls usen't to do
that.&nbsp; But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs Pipkin,
thinking of the new dispensation.

<p>"I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did
formerly."

<p>"A deal more, Mrs Hurtle; quite different.&nbsp; You hear them
talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that
fellow,&mdash;and that before their very fathers and mothers!&nbsp; When
I was young we used to do it, I suppose,&mdash;only not like that."

<p>"You did it on the sly."

<p>"I think we got married quicker than they do, anyway.&nbsp; When
the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about
it.&nbsp; But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs
Hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to
her.&nbsp; I don't want her to go away from this, out into the
Street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent.&nbsp; As for
going to her young man,&mdash;that's just walking the streets."

<p>Mrs Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when
making the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the
task.&nbsp; She knew nothing of the country.&nbsp; She had not a
single friend in it, but Paul Montague;&mdash;and she had run after him
with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles was showing in running
after her lover.&nbsp; Who was she that she should take upon
herself to give advice to any female?

<p>She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in
her pocket-book.&nbsp; At some moments she thought that she would
send it; and at others she told herself that she would never
surrender this last hope till every stone had been turned.&nbsp; It
might still be possible to shame him into a marriage.&nbsp; She had
returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial
excuse to Mrs Pipkin in her mildest voice.&nbsp; The place had been
windy, and too cold for her;&mdash;and she had not liked the
hotel.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="49"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XLIX.&nbsp; Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Sir Felix, when he promised to meet Ruby at the Music Hall on
the Tuesday, was under an engagement to start with Marie Melmotte
for New York on the Thursday following, and to go down to Liverpool
on the Wednesday.&nbsp; There was no reason, he thought, why he
should not enjoy himself to the last, and he would say a parting
word to poor little Ruby.&nbsp; The details of his journey were
settled between him and Marie, with no inconsiderable assistance
from Didon, in the garden of Grosvenor Square, on the previous
Sunday,&mdash;where the lovers had again met during the hours of morning
service.&nbsp; Sir Felix had been astonished at the completion of
the preparations which had been made.&nbsp; "Mind you go by the 5
p.m. train," Marie said.&nbsp; "That will take you into Liverpool
at 10:15.&nbsp; There's an hotel at the railway station.&nbsp;
Didon has got our tickets under the names of Madame and
Mademoiselle Racine.&nbsp; We are to have one cabin between
us.&nbsp; You must get yours to-morrow.&nbsp; She has found out
that there is plenty of room."

<p>"I'll be all right."

<p>"Pray don't miss the train that afternoon.&nbsp; Somebody would
be sure to suspect something if we were seen together in the same
train.&nbsp; We leave at 7 a.m.&nbsp; I shan't go to bed all night,
so as to be sure to be in time.&nbsp; Robert,&mdash;he's the man,&mdash;will
start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box.&nbsp; What do
you think is in it?"

<p>"Clothes," suggested Felix.

<p>"Yes, but what clothes?&mdash;my wedding dresses.&nbsp; Think of
that!&nbsp; What a job to get them and nobody to know anything
about it except Didon and Madame Craik at the shop in Mount
Street!&nbsp; They haven't come yet, but I shall be there whether
they come or not.&nbsp; And I shall have all my jewels.&nbsp; I'm
not going to leave them behind.&nbsp; They'll go off in our
cab.&nbsp; We can get the things out behind the house into the
mews.&nbsp; Then Didon and I follow in another cab.&nbsp; Nobody
ever is up before near nine, and I don't think we shall be
interrupted."

<p>"If the servants were to hear."

<p>"I don't think they'd tell.&nbsp; But if I was to be brought
back again, I should only tell papa that it was no good.&nbsp; He
can't prevent me marrying."

<p>"Won't your mother find out?"

<p>"She never looks after anything.&nbsp; I don't think she'd tell
if she knew.&nbsp; Papa leads her such a life!&nbsp; Felix!&nbsp; I
hope you won't be like that."&mdash;And she looked up into his
face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be.

<p>"I'm all right," said Felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the
time.&nbsp; This great effort of his life was drawing very
near.&nbsp; There had been a pleasurable excitement in talking of
running away with the great heiress of the day, but now that the
deed had to be executed,&mdash;and executed after so novel and
stupendous a fashion, he almost wished that he had not undertaken
it.&nbsp; It must have been much nicer when men ran away with their
heiresses only as far as Gretna Green.&nbsp; And even Goldsheiner
with Lady Julia had nothing of a job in comparison with this which
he was expected to perform.&nbsp; And then if they should be wrong
about the girl's fortune!&nbsp; He almost repented.&nbsp; He did
repent, but he had not the courage to recede.&nbsp; "How about
money though?" he said hoarsely.

<p>"You have got some?"

<p>"I have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me,
and not a shilling more.&nbsp; I don't see why he should keep my
money, and not let me have it back."

<p>"Look here," said Marie, and she put her hand into her
pocket.&nbsp; "I told you I thought I could get some.&nbsp; There
is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds.&nbsp; I had money of
my own enough for the tickets."

<p>"And whose is this?" said Felix, taking the bit of paper with
much trepidation.

<p>"It is papa's cheque.&nbsp; Mamma gets ever so many of them to
carry on the house and pay for things.&nbsp; But she gets so
muddled about it that she doesn't know what she pays and what she
doesn't."&nbsp; Felix looked at the cheque and saw that it was
payable to House or Bearer, and that it was signed by Augustus
Melmotte.&nbsp; "If you take it to the bank you'll get the money,"
said Marie.&nbsp; "Or shall I send Didon, and give you the money on
board the ship?"

<p>Felix thought over the matter very anxiously.&nbsp; If he did go
on the journey he would much prefer to have the money in his own
pocket.&nbsp; He liked the feeling of having money in his
pocket.&nbsp; Perhaps if Didon were entrusted with the cheque she
also would like the feeling.&nbsp; But then might it not be
possible that if he presented the cheque himself he might be
arrested for stealing Melmotte's money?&nbsp; "I think Didon had
better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me to-morrow, at
four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club."&nbsp; If the money did
not come he would not go down to Liverpool, nor would he be at the
expense of his ticket for New York.&nbsp; "You see," he said, "I'm
so much in the City that they might know me at the bank."&nbsp; To
this arrangement Marie assented and took back the cheque.&nbsp;
"And then I'll come on board on Thursday morning," he said,
"without looking for you."

<p>"Oh dear, yes;&mdash;without looking for us.&nbsp; And don't know us
even till we are out at sea.&nbsp; Won't it be fun when we shall be
walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another!&nbsp;
And, Felix;&mdash;what do you think?&nbsp; Didon has found out that there
is to be an American clergyman on board.&nbsp; I wonder whether
he'd marry us."

<p>"Of course he will."

<p>"Won't that be jolly?&nbsp; I wish it was all done.&nbsp; Then,
directly it's done, and when we get to New York, we'll telegraph
and write to papa, and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't
we?&nbsp; Of course he'll make the best of it."

<p>"But he's so savage; isn't he?"

<p>"When there's anything to get;&mdash;or just at the moment.&nbsp; But
I don't think he minds afterwards.&nbsp; He's always for making the
best of everything;&mdash;misfortunes and all.&nbsp; Things go wrong so
often that if he was to go on thinking of them always they'd be too
many for anybody.&nbsp; It'll be all right in a month's time.&nbsp;
I wonder how Lord Nidderdale will look when he hears that we've
gone off.&nbsp; I should so like to see him.&nbsp; He never can say
that I've behaved bad to him.&nbsp; We were engaged, but it was he
broke it.&nbsp; Do you know, Felix, that though we were engaged to
be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!"&nbsp;
Felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so.&nbsp;
As to what the other man had done, he cared nothing at all.

<p>Then they parted with the understanding that they were not to
see each other again till they met on board the boat.&nbsp; All
arrangements were made.&nbsp; But Felix was determined that he
would not stir in the matter unless Didon brought him the full sum
of &pound;250; and he almost thought, and indeed hoped, that she
would not.&nbsp; Either she would be suspected at the bank and
apprehended, or she would run off with the money on her own account
when she got it;&mdash;or the cheque would have been missed and the
payment stopped.&nbsp; Some accident would occur, and then he would
be able to recede from his undertaking.&nbsp; He would do nothing
till after Monday afternoon.

<p>Should he tell his mother that he was going?&nbsp; His mother
had clearly recommended him to run away with the girl, and must
therefore approve of the measure.&nbsp; His mother would understand
how great would be the expense of such a trip, and might perhaps
add something to his stock of money.&nbsp; He determined that he
could tell his mother;&mdash;that is, if Didon should bring him full
change for the cheque.

<p>He walked into the Beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the
Monday, and there he found Didon standing in the hall.&nbsp; His
heart sank within him as he saw her.&nbsp; Now must he certainly go
to New York.&nbsp; She made him a little curtsey, and without a
word handed him an envelope, soft and fat with rich
enclosures.&nbsp; He bade her wait a moment, and going into a
little waiting-room counted the notes.&nbsp; The money was all
there;&mdash;the full sum of &pound;250.&nbsp; He must certainly go to
New York.&nbsp; "C'est tout &egrave;n regle?" said Didon in a
whisper as he returned to the hall.&nbsp; Sir Felix nodded his
head, and Didon took her departure.

<p>Yes; he must go now.&nbsp; He had Melmotte's money in his
pocket, and was therefore bound to run away with Melmotte's
daughter.&nbsp; It was a great trouble to him as he reflected that
Melmotte had more of his money than he had of Melmotte's.&nbsp; And
now how should he dispose of his time before he went?&nbsp;
Gambling was too dangerous.&nbsp; Even he felt that.&nbsp; Where
would he be were he to lose his ready money?&nbsp; He would dine
that night at the club, and in the evening go up to his
mother.&nbsp; On the Tuesday he would take his place for New York
in the City, and would spend the evening with Ruby at the Music
Hall.&nbsp; On the Wednesday, he would start for
Liverpool,&mdash;according to his instructions.&nbsp; He felt annoyed
that he had been so fully instructed.&nbsp; But should the affair
turn out well nobody would know that.&nbsp; All the fellows would
give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the
heiress to America.

<p>At ten o'clock he found his mother and Hetta in Welbeck
Street&mdash;"What; Felix?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.

<p>"You're surprised; are you not?"&nbsp; Then he threw himself
into a chair.&nbsp; "Mother," he said, "would you mind coming into
the other room?"&nbsp; Lady Carbury of course went with him.&nbsp;
"I've got something to tell you," he said.

<p>"Good news?" she asked, clasping her hands together.&nbsp; From
his manner she thought that it was good news.&nbsp; Money had in
some way come into his hands,&mdash;or at any rate a prospect of money.

<p>"That's as may be," he said, and then he paused.

<p>"Don't keep me in suspense, Felix."

<p>"The long and the short of it is that I'm going to take Marie
off."

<p>"Oh, Felix."

<p>"You said you thought it was the right thing to do;&mdash;and
therefore I'm going to do it.&nbsp; The worst of it is that one
wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing."

<p>"But when?"

<p>"Immediately.&nbsp; I wouldn't tell you till I had arranged
everything.&nbsp; I've had it in my mind for the last fortnight."

<p>"And how is it to be?&nbsp; Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed."

<p>"It was your own idea, you know.&nbsp; We're going to;&mdash;where do
you think?"

<p>"How can I think?&mdash;Boulogne."

<p>"You say that just because Goldsheiner went there.&nbsp; That
wouldn't have done at all for us.&nbsp; We're going to&mdash;New York."

<p>"To New York!&nbsp; But when will you be married?"

<p>"There will be a clergyman on board.&nbsp; It's all fixed.&nbsp;
I wouldn't go without telling you."

<p>"Oh; I wish you hadn't told me."

<p>"Come now;&mdash;that's kind.&nbsp; You don't mean to say it wasn't
you that put me up to it.&nbsp; I've got to get my things ready."

<p>"Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I
will have your clothes got ready for you.&nbsp; When do you start?"

<p>"Wednesday afternoon."

<p>"For New York!&nbsp; We must get some things ready-made.&nbsp;
Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?"&nbsp; He
attempted to laugh.&nbsp; "When I spoke of such a thing as possible
he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling."

<p>"They always say that."

<p>"You are going to risk it?"

<p>"I am going to take your advice."&nbsp; This was dreadful to the
poor mother.&nbsp; "There is money settled on her."

<p>"Settled on whom?"

<p>"On Marie;&mdash;money which he can't get back again."

<p>"How much?"

<p>"She doesn't know,&mdash;but a great deal; enough for them all to
live upon if things went amiss with them."

<p>"But that's only a form, Felix.&nbsp; That money can't be her
own, to give to her husband."

<p>"Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms.&nbsp;
That's the pull we've got over him.&nbsp; Marie knows what she's
about.&nbsp; She's a great deal sharper than any one would take her
to be.&nbsp; What can you do for me about money, mother?"

<p>"I have none, Felix."

<p>"I thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to
do it."

<p>"That's not true, Felix.&nbsp; I didn't want you to do it.&nbsp;
Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth!&nbsp; I have
no money.&nbsp; There isn't &pound;20 at the bank altogether."

<p>"They would let you overdraw for &pound;50 or &pound;60."

<p>"I will not do it.&nbsp; I will not starve myself and
Hetta.&nbsp; You had ever so much money only lately.&nbsp; I will
get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot
pay for them after your marriage;&mdash;but I have not money to give
you."

<p>"That's a blue look-out," said he, turning himself in his chair
"just when &pound;60 or &pound;70 might make a fellow for
life!&nbsp; You could borrow it from your friend Broune."

<p>"I will do no such thing, Felix.&nbsp; &pound;50 or &pound;60
would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as
this.&nbsp; I suppose you have some money?"

<p>"Some;&mdash;yes, some.&nbsp; But I'm so short that any little thing
would help me."&nbsp; Before the evening was over she absolutely
did give him a cheque for &pound;30 although she had spoken the
truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker's.

<p>After this he went back to his club, although he himself
understood the danger.&nbsp; He could not bear the idea of going to
bed, quietly at home at half-past ten.&nbsp; He got into a cab, and
was very soon up in the card-room.&nbsp; He found nobody there, and
went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles
Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their
mouths.&nbsp; "Here's Carbury," said Dolly, waking suddenly into
life.&nbsp; "Now we can have a game at three-handed loo."

<p><p>"Thank ye; not for me," said Sir Felix.&nbsp; "I hate
three-handed loo."

<p>"Dummy," suggested Dolly.

<p>"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow.&nbsp; I hate
three fellows sticking down together."&nbsp; Miles sat silent,
smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with
him.&nbsp; "By-the-by, Grendall look here."&nbsp; And Sir Felix in
his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a petition
that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into cash.

<p>"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week," said
Miles.

<p>"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix,
getting up and standing with his back to the fireplace.&nbsp; There
were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one
should hear it.&nbsp; "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these
for five shillings in the pound?"&nbsp; And he held up the scraps
of paper in his hand.&nbsp; He had been drinking freely before he
went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a glass of brandy on
re-entering the club.

<p>"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said
Dolly.&nbsp; "If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the
card-room."

<p>"Of course," said Miles.&nbsp; "I won't say a word about the
matter down here.&nbsp; It isn't the proper thing."

<p>"Come up into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix, getting up
from his chair.&nbsp; "It seems to me that it makes no difference
to you, what room you're in.&nbsp; Come up, now; and Dolly
Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say."&nbsp; But Miles
Grendall objected to this arrangement.&nbsp; He was not going up
into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play.&nbsp;
He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had
anything to say, he could say it.

<p>"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly.&nbsp; "One has to have rows
with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club."

<p>"He likes a row,&mdash;Carbury does," said Miles.

<p>"I should like my money, if I could get it," said Sir Felix,
walking out of the room.

<p>On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's
cheque.&nbsp; This was done after a little hesitation: The money
was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him
to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account.&nbsp;
"Dear, dear;" said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, "I'm sure
she was unaware of it."&nbsp; Then he paid for his passage from
Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones, and felt as
he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep.&nbsp; This was
on Tuesday.&nbsp; He dined again at the club, alone, and in the
evening went to the Music Hall.&nbsp; There he remained, from ten
till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby
Ruggles.&nbsp; As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made
up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for
New York.&nbsp; Of course he would have done no such thing.&nbsp;
But now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his
answer ready.&nbsp; He had devoted his last night in England to the
purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment.&nbsp;
Everything would now be her fault.&nbsp; Whatever might happen to
her she could not blame him.

<p>Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,&mdash;for a music
hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,&mdash;he went back
to his club.&nbsp; He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make
him, and well inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an
opportunity.&nbsp; Up in the card-room he found all the accustomed
men,&mdash;with the exception of Miles Grendall.&nbsp; Nidderdale,
Grasslough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were
there.&nbsp; There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing
without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles
Grendall.&nbsp; Ready money was on the table,&mdash;and there was none
of the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about.&nbsp; Indeed the men
at the Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been
formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat
lower, but the payments punctual.&nbsp; The I.O.U.'s had been
nearly all converted into money,&mdash;with the assistance of Herr
Vossner,&mdash;excepting those of Miles Grendall.&nbsp; The resolution
mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's former indebtedness, but
was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready
money.&nbsp; Nidderdale had communicated to him the determination
of the committee.&nbsp; "Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you
really must stump up, you know, after this."&nbsp; Miles had
declared that he would "stump up."&nbsp; But on this occasion Miles
was absent.

<p>At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a
hundred pounds in ready money.&nbsp; On the following night about
one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds.&nbsp; The
reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the
hotel at Liverpool.

<p>But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of
recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how
Fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club
to catch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to
New York without delay.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="50"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER L.&nbsp; The Journey to Liverpool</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did
also the faithful Didon.&nbsp; I think that to Marie the night was
full of pleasure,&mdash;or at any rate of pleasurable excitement.&nbsp;
With her door locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her
treasures,&mdash;having more than once laid out on the bed the dress in
which she purposed to be married.&nbsp; She asked Didon her opinion
whether that American clergyman of whom they had heard would marry
them on board, and whether in that event the dress would be fit for
the occasion.&nbsp; Didon thought that the man, if sufficiently
paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much
signify.&nbsp; She scolded her young mistress very often during the
night for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked
hard for her.&nbsp; They determined to go without food in the
morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups
and plates.&nbsp; They could get refreshment at the
railway-station.

<p>At six they started.&nbsp; Robert went first with the big boxes,
having his ten pounds already in his pocket,&mdash;and Marie and Didon
with smaller luggage followed in a second cab.&nbsp; No one
interfered with them and nothing went wrong.&nbsp; The very civil
man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to
speak to them in French.&nbsp; They had quite determined that not a
word of English was to be spoken by Marie till the ship was out at
sea.&nbsp; At the station they got some very bad tea and almost
uneatable food,&mdash;but Marie's restrained excitement was so great
that food was almost unnecessary to her.&nbsp; They took their
seats without any impediment,&mdash;and then they were off.

<p>During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then
Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and
all the things she would do;&mdash;how she had hated Lord
Nidderdale,&mdash;especially when, after she had been awed into
accepting him, he had given her no token of love,&mdash;"pas un
baiser!"&nbsp; Didon suggested that such was the way with English
lords.&nbsp; She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had
been willing to join in the present plan,&mdash;as she said, from
devoted affection to Marie.&nbsp; Marie went on to say that
Nidderdale was ugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the
morning.&nbsp; "Bah!" exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted
that such considerations should prevail.&nbsp; Didon had learned in
some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and
would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir
Felix, and, of his own, would never have anything at all.&nbsp; She
had striven with her mistress, but her mistress liked to have a
will of her own.&nbsp; Didon no doubt had thought that New York,
with &pound;50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new
career.&nbsp; She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly
forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress.&nbsp;
Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour.&nbsp; She was running
away,&mdash;and was running to a distant continent,&mdash;and her lover would
be with her!&nbsp; She gave Didon to understand that she cared
nothing for marquises.

<p>As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must
still be very careful.&nbsp; It would not do for them to declare at
once their destination on the platform,&mdash;so that every one about
the station should know that they were going on board the packet
for New York.&nbsp; They had time enough.&nbsp; They must leisurely
look for the big boxes and other things, and need say nothing about
the steam packet till they were in a cab.&nbsp; Marie's big box was
directed simply "Madame Racine, Passenger to Liverpool;"&mdash;so also
was directed a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's
property.&nbsp; Didon declared that her anxiety would not be over
till she found the ship moving under her.&nbsp; Marie was sure that
all their dangers were over,&mdash;if only Sir Felix was safe on
board.&nbsp; Poor Marie!&nbsp; Sir Felix was at this moment in
Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion for his
distressing situation and loss of money, and some alleviation for
his racking temples, beneath the bedclothes.

<p>When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women
sat for a few moments quite quiet.&nbsp; They would not seek remark
by any hurry or noise.&nbsp; The door was opened, and a
well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage.&nbsp; Didon
handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in
her own hands.&nbsp; She left the carriage first, and then
Marie.&nbsp; But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform,
before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, "You, I think,
are Miss Melmotte."&nbsp; Marie was struck dumb, but said
nothing.&nbsp; Didon immediately became voluble in French.&nbsp;
No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was
Mademoiselle Racine, her niece.&nbsp; She was Madame Racine.&nbsp;
Melmotte!&nbsp; What was Melmotte?&nbsp; They knew nothing about
Melmottes.&nbsp; Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on
to their cab?

<p>But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on
to their cab.&nbsp; With the gentleman was another gentleman,&mdash;who
did not seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;&mdash;and again, not
far in the distance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not
at present connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have
his time very much at command, and to be quite ready if he were
wanted.&nbsp; Didon at once gave up the game,&mdash;as regarded her
mistress.

<p>"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss
Melmotte," said the gentleman, "and that this other&mdash;person is your
servant, Elise Didon.&nbsp; You speak English, Miss
Melmotte."&nbsp; Marie declared that she spoke French.&nbsp; "And
English too," said the gentleman.&nbsp; "I think you had better
make up your minds to go back to London.&nbsp; I will accompany
you."

<p>"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie.&nbsp; Didon,
plucking up her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of
her own position and of that of her mistress.&nbsp; They had both a
right to come to Liverpool.&nbsp; They had both a right to get
into the cab with their luggage.&nbsp; Nobody had a right to stop
them.&nbsp; They had done nothing against the laws.&nbsp; Why were
they to be stopped in this way?&nbsp; What was it to anybody
whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

<p>The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit
himself to reply in the same language.&nbsp; "You had better trust
yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.

<p>"But why?" demanded Marie.

<p>Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice.&nbsp; "A cheque
has been changed which you took from your father's house.&nbsp; No
doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with
him.&nbsp; But in order that we may bring you back safely we can
arrest you on the score of the cheque,&mdash;if you force us to do
so.&nbsp; We certainly shall not let you go on board.&nbsp; If you
will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no
inconvenience which can be avoided."

<p>There was certainly no help to be found anywhere.&nbsp; It may
be well doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added
more to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether
the gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority
ought not to have been punished with special severity in that they
had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they
had produced.&nbsp; Who is benefited by telegrams?&nbsp; The
newspapers are robbed of all their old interest, and the very soul
of intrigue is destroyed.&nbsp; Poor Marie, when she heard her
fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr Scudamore.

<p>When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further
opposition.&nbsp; Looking into Didon's face and bursting into
tears, she sat down on one of the boxes.&nbsp; But Didon became
very clamorous on her own behalf,&mdash;and her clamour was
successful.&nbsp; "Who was going to stop her?&nbsp; What had she
done?&nbsp; Why should not she go where she pleased.&nbsp; Did
anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money?&nbsp; If
anybody did, that person had better look to himself.&nbsp; She knew
the law.&nbsp; She would go where she pleased."&nbsp; So saying she
began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it
by her own force out of the station.&nbsp; The gentleman looked at
his telegram,&mdash;looked at another document which he now held in his
hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted.&nbsp; Elise Didon had
been accused of nothing that brought her within the law.&nbsp; The
gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better
return with her mistress.&nbsp; But Didon clamoured only the
more.&nbsp; No; she would go to New York.&nbsp; She would go
wherever she pleased;&mdash;all the world over.&nbsp; Nobody should stop
her.&nbsp; Then she addressed herself in what little English she
could command to half-a-dozen cab-men who were standing round and
enjoying the scene.&nbsp; They were to take her trunk at
once.&nbsp; She had money and she could pay.&nbsp; She started off
to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her.&nbsp; "But the box in
her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her
misery.&nbsp; Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced
herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was
hoisted on to the roof.&nbsp; Then she was driven away out of the
station,&mdash;and out of our story.&nbsp; She had a first-class cabin
all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate
after that it matters not to us to enquire.

<p>Poor Marie!&nbsp; We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix
had proved himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded
in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of
miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would
then at last have been carried to New York without him, may
congratulate her on her escape.&nbsp; And, indeed, we who know his
character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that
she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage.&nbsp; But
to her her present position was truly miserable.&nbsp; She would
have to encounter an enraged father; and when,&mdash;when should she see
her lover again?&nbsp; Poor, poor Felix!&nbsp; What would be his
feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without
his love!&nbsp; But in one matter she made up her mind
steadfastly.&nbsp; She would be true to him!&nbsp; They might chop
her in pieces!&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;she had said it before, and she would
say it again.&nbsp; There was, however, doubt in her mind from time
to time, whether one course might not be better even than
constancy.&nbsp; If she could contrive to throw herself out of the
carriage and to be killed,&mdash;would not that be the best termination
to her present disappointment?&nbsp; Would not that be the best
punishment for her father?&nbsp; But how then would it be with poor
Felix?&nbsp; "After all I don't know that he cares for me," she
said to herself, thinking over it all.

<p>The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as
though she were disgraced.&nbsp; As they got near town he ventured
to give her a little advice.&nbsp; "Put a good face on it," he
said, "and don't be cast down."

<p>"Oh, I won't," she answered.&nbsp; "I don't mean."

<p>"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."

<p>"I don't think that mamma cares.&nbsp; It's papa.&nbsp; I'd do
it again to-morrow if I had the chance."&nbsp; The gentleman looked
at her, not having expected so much determination.&nbsp; "I
would.&nbsp; Why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one
but herself?&nbsp; I won't.&nbsp; And it's very mean saying that I
stole the money.&nbsp; I always take what I want, and papa never
says anything about it."

<p>"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."

<p>"It is nothing in our house.&nbsp; It isn't about the
money.&nbsp; It's because papa wants me to marry another man;&mdash;and
I won't.&nbsp; It was downright mean to send and have me taken up
before all the people."

<p>"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."

<p>"Of course I wouldn't," said Marie.

<p>The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on
the journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the
Melmotte carriages.&nbsp; Marie was to be taken home in the
carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;&mdash;to follow at some
interval so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had
taken place.&nbsp; Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all
about it.&nbsp; "And are you to come?" Marie asked, speaking to the
gentleman.&nbsp; The gentleman replied that be had been requested
to see Miss Melmotte home.&nbsp; "All the people will wonder who
you are," said Marie laughing.&nbsp; Then the gentleman thought
that Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles
without much suffering.

<p>When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's
room,&mdash;and there she found her father, alone.&nbsp; "This is your
game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.

<p>"Well, papa;&mdash;yes.&nbsp; You made me do it."

<p>"You fool you!&nbsp; You were going to New York,&mdash;were
you?"&nbsp; To this she vouchsafed no reply.&nbsp; "As if I hadn't
found out all about it.&nbsp; Who was going with you?"

<p>"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."

<p>"Of course I know;&mdash;but you don't know all about it, you little
idiot."

<p>"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot.&nbsp; You always say so."

<p>"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?"&nbsp; Then she
opened her eyes and looked at him.&nbsp; "An hour ago he was in bed
at his mother's house in Welbeck Street."

<p>"I don't believe it, papa."

<p>"You don't, don't you?&nbsp; You'll find it true.&nbsp; If you
had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone.&nbsp; If I'd known at
first that he had stayed behind, I think I'd have let you go."

<p>"I'm sure he didn't stay behind."

<p>"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade.&nbsp; He is
in London at this moment.&nbsp; What has become of the woman that
went with you?"

<p>"She's gone on board the ship."

<p>"And where is the money you took from your mother?"&nbsp; Marie
was silent.&nbsp; "Who got the cheque changed?"

<p>"Didon did."

<p>"And has she got the money?"

<p>"No, papa."

<p>"Have you got it?"

<p>"No, papa."

<p>"Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?"

<p>"Yes, papa."

<p>"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."

<p>"Oh, papa, don't do that;&mdash;pray don't do that.&nbsp; He didn't
steal it.&nbsp; I only gave it him to take care of for us.&nbsp;
He'll give it you back again."

<p>"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't
go to Liverpool.&nbsp; Will you give me your word that you'll never
attempt to marry him again if I don't prosecute him?"&nbsp; Marie
considered.&nbsp; "Unless you do that I shall go to a magistrate at
once."

<p>"I don't believe you can do anything to him.&nbsp; He didn't
steal it.&nbsp; I gave it to him."

<p>"Will you promise me?"

<p>"No, papa, I won't.&nbsp; What's the good of promising when I
should only break it.&nbsp; Why can't you let me have the man I
love?&nbsp; What's the good of all the money if people don't have
what they like?"

<p>"All the money!&mdash;What do you know about the money?&nbsp;
Look here," and he took her by the arm.&nbsp; "I've been very good
to you.&nbsp; You've had your share of everything that has been
going;&mdash;carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and
gloves, and every thing else."&nbsp; He held her very hard and
shook her as he spoke.

<p>"Let me go, papa; you hurt me.&nbsp; I never asked for such
things.&nbsp; I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches."

<p>"What do you care for?"

<p>"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.

<p>"You'll soon have nobody to love you if you go on this
fashion.&nbsp; You've had everything done for you, and if you don't
do something for me in return, by G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;,
you shall have a hard time of it.&nbsp; If you weren't such a fool
you'd believe me when I say that I know more than you do."

<p>"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy."

<p>"Do you think only of yourself?&nbsp; If you'll marry Lord
Nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can
take from you."

<p>"Then I won't," said Marie firmly.&nbsp; Upon this he shook her
till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife
not to let the girl for one minute out of her presence.

<p>The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the
lady with whom he was to have run away.&nbsp; He had played at the
Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, on
the breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost
penniless.&nbsp; During the last half hour he had made himself very
unpleasant at the club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles
Grendall;&mdash;of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things
too hard, had they been said in a proper form and at a proper
time.&nbsp; He declared that Grendall would not pay his debts, that
he had cheated when playing loo,&mdash;as to which Sir Felix appealed to
Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended by asserting that Grendall ought to
be turned out of the club.&nbsp; They had a desperate row.&nbsp;
Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and Lord
Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than one
person ought to be turned out.&nbsp; At four o'clock the party was
broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with
nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his
pocket.&nbsp; All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club,
and there he left it.

<p>There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir
Felix wandering about the streets of London that night.&nbsp;
Though he was nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the
condition of his affairs.&nbsp; There is an intoxication that makes
merry in the midst of affliction,&mdash;and there is an intoxication
that banishes affliction by producing oblivion.&nbsp; But again
there is an intoxication which is conscious of itself though it
makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the brain
foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion.&nbsp; Sir
Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and losing it at
every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every
wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no
good at all out of his intoxication.&nbsp; What had he better do
with himself?&nbsp; He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get
hold of his ticket for New York.&nbsp; Should he still make the
journey?&nbsp; Then he thought of his luggage, and could not
remember where it was.&nbsp; At last, as he steadied himself
against a letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his
portmanteaus were at the club.&nbsp; By this time he had wandered
into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where he
was.&nbsp; But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and
stumbled half down Bond Street.&nbsp; Then a policeman enquired
into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck
Street, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street.&nbsp; Having
once mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of
will left to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and
starting for Liverpool.

<p>Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck
Street.&nbsp; He had tried his latch-key, but had found it
inefficient.&nbsp; As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door
had in fact been locked.&nbsp; At last it was opened by Lady
Carbury herself.&nbsp; He had fallen more than once, and was soiled
with the gutter.&nbsp; Most of my readers will not probably know
how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning; but
they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight
cannot meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a
condition.&nbsp; "Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.

<p>"It'sh all up," he said, stumbling in.

<p>"What has happened, Felix?"

<p>"Discovered, and be d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; to it!&nbsp;
The old shap'sh stopped ush."&nbsp; Drunk as he was, he was able to
lie.&nbsp; At that moment the "old shap" was fast asleep in
Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie,
joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews.&nbsp;
"Bettersh go to bed."&nbsp; And so he stumbled upstairs by
daylight, the wretched mother helping him.&nbsp; She took off his
clothes for him and his boots, and having left him already asleep,
she went down to her own room, a miserable woman.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="51"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LI.&nbsp; Which Shall It Be?</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on
the Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs
Hurtle.&nbsp; As he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition,
he almost wished that he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to
Mexico.&nbsp; He might at any rate have endeavoured to promote the
railway earnestly, and then have abandoned it if he found the whole
thing false.&nbsp; In such case of course he would never have seen
Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of what use to him was
his love,&mdash;of what use to him or to her?&nbsp; The kind of life of
which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of Roger
Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he
loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach.&nbsp; Nobody was like
Roger Carbury!&nbsp; Would it not be well that he should go away,
and, as he went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that
ever lived in the world?

<p>But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him.&nbsp; He
had repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with
Melmotte.&nbsp; It was necessary that he should immediately take
some further step in regard to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Twice lately he
had gone to Islington determined that he would see that lady for
the last time.&nbsp; Then he had taken her to Lowestoft, and had
been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put an end
to his present bonds.&nbsp; Now he had promised to go again to
Islington;&mdash;and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise,
she would come to him.&nbsp; In this way there would never be an
end to it.

<p>He would certainly go again, as he had promised,&mdash;if she should
still require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,&mdash;a
plain unvarnished tale.&nbsp; Might it still be possible that a
plain tale sent by post should have sufficient efficacy?&nbsp; This
was his plain tale as he now told it.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.<br>
<br>
MY DEAR MRS HURTLE,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I promised that I would go to you
again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it.&nbsp;
But I think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of
us.&nbsp; What is to be gained?&nbsp; I do not for a moment mean to
justify my own conduct.&nbsp; It is not to be justified.&nbsp; When
I met you on our journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed
with your genius, your beauty, and your character.&nbsp; They are
now what I found them to be then.&nbsp; But circumstances have made
our lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain
that, were we married, we should not make each other happy.&nbsp;
Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault,
and to take all the blame,&mdash;and the evil consequences, let them be
what they may</i> [to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in
Oregon] <i>than to be married with the consciousness that even at
the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be a matter of
sorrow and repentance.&nbsp; As soon as my mind was made up on this
I wrote to you.&nbsp; I can not,&mdash;I dare not,&mdash;blame you for the
step you have since taken.&nbsp; But I can only adhere to the
resolution I then expressed.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The first day I saw you here in
London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman.&nbsp;
I could answer you only by the truth.&nbsp; But I should not of my
own accord have spoken to you of altered affections.&nbsp; It was
after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first
knew this girl.&nbsp; It was not because I had come to love her
that I broke it.&nbsp; I have no grounds whatever for hoping that
my love will lead to any results.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have now told you as exactly as I
can the condition of my mind.&nbsp; If it were possible for me in
any way to compensate the injury I have done you,&mdash;or even to
undergo retribution for it,&mdash;I would do so.&nbsp; But what
compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact?&nbsp;
I think that our further meeting can avail nothing.&nbsp; But if,
after this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last
time,&mdash;because I have promised.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your most sincere friend,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PAUL MONTAGUE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Mrs Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways.&nbsp; All
that Paul had written was in accordance with the words written by
herself on a scrap of paper which she still kept in her own
pocket.&nbsp; Those words, fairly transcribed on a sheet of
note-paper, would be the most generous and the fittest answer she
could give.&nbsp; And she longed to be generous.&nbsp; She had all
a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself.&nbsp; But the
sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been
of another kind.&nbsp; Had she found him ruined and penniless she
would have delighted to share with him all that she
possessed.&nbsp; Had she found him a cripple, or blind, or
miserably struck with some disease, she would have stayed by him
and have nursed him and given him comfort.&nbsp; Even had he been
disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country and have
pardoned all his faults.&nbsp; No sacrifice would have been too
much for her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that he
appreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved
in return.&nbsp; But to sacrifice herself by going away and never
more being heard of, was too much for her!&nbsp; What woman can
endure such sacrifice as that?&nbsp; To give up not only her love,
but her wrath also;&mdash;that was too much for her!&nbsp; The idea of
being tame was terrible to her.&nbsp; Her life had not been very
prosperous, but she was what she was because she had dared to
protect herself by her own spirit.&nbsp; Now, at last, should she
succumb and be trodden on like a worm?&nbsp; Should she be weaker
even than an English girl?&nbsp; Should she allow him to have
amused himself with her love, to have had "a good time," and then
to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully scorched, so
mutilated and punished!&nbsp; Had not her whole life been opposed
to the theory of such passive endurance?&nbsp; She took out the
scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that
there was a feminine softness in it that gratified her.

<p>But no;&mdash;she could not send it.&nbsp; She could not even copy
the words.&nbsp; And so she gave play to all her strongest feelings
on the other side,&mdash;being in truth torn in two directions.&nbsp;
Then she sat herself down to her desk, and with rapid words, and
flashing thoughts, wrote as follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
PAUL MONTAGUE,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have suffered many injuries, but of
all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable,&mdash;and the most
unmanly.&nbsp; Surely there never was such a coward, never so false
a liar.&nbsp; The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor
and was only acting after his kind.&nbsp; Even Caradoc Hurtle never
premeditated such wrong as this.&nbsp; What you are to bind
yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can join a man
and a woman together, and then tell me,&mdash;when they have affected my
whole life,&mdash;that they are to go for nothing, because they do not
suit your view of things?&nbsp; On thinking over it, you find that
an American wife would not make you so comfortable as some English
girl;&mdash;and therefore it is all to go for nothing!&nbsp; I have no
brother, no man near me;&mdash;or you would not dare to do this.&nbsp;
You can not but be a coward.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You talk of compensation!&nbsp; Do
you mean money?&nbsp; You do not dare to say so, but you must mean
it.&nbsp; It is an insult the more.&nbsp; But as to retribution;
yes.&nbsp; You shall suffer retribution.&nbsp; I desire you to come
to me,&mdash;according to your promise,&mdash;and you will find me with a
horsewhip in my hand.&nbsp; I will whip you till I have not a
breath in my body.&nbsp; And then I will see what you will dare to
do;&mdash;whether you will drag me into a court of law for the
assault.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yes; come.&nbsp; You shall
come.&nbsp; And now you know the welcome you shall find.&nbsp; I
will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find
that I know how to choose such a weapon.&nbsp; I call upon you so
come.&nbsp; But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will
come to you.&nbsp; I will make London too hot to hold you;&mdash;and if
I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you
have.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have now told you as exactly as I
can the condition of my mind.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WINIFRED HURTLE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Having written this she again read the short note, and again
gave way to violent tears.&nbsp; But on that day she sent no
letter.&nbsp; On the following morning she wrote a third, and sent
that.&nbsp; This was the third letter:&mdash;

<p>"Yes.&nbsp; Come.<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;W. H."

<p>This letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings.&nbsp; He
started immediately for Islington.&nbsp; He had now no desire to
delay the meeting.&nbsp; He had at any rate taught her that his
gentleness towards her, his going to the play with her, and
drinking tea with her at Mrs Pipkin's, and his journey with her to
the sea, were not to be taken as evidence that he was gradually
being conquered.&nbsp; He had declared his purpose plainly enough
at Lowestoft,&mdash;and plainly enough in his last letter.&nbsp; She
had told him, down at the hotel, that had she by chance have been
armed at the moment, she would have shot him.&nbsp; She could arm
herself now if she pleased;&mdash;but his real fear had not lain in that
direction.&nbsp; The pang consisted in having to assure her that he
was resolved to do her wrong.&nbsp; The worst of that was now over.

<p>The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him
with a happy countenance.&nbsp; It was the second morning after the
night of her imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate
her woe.&nbsp; At this very moment her lover should have been in
Liverpool, but he was, in fact, abed in Welbeck Street.&nbsp; "Yes,
sir; she's at home," said Ruby, with a baby in her arms and a
little child hanging on to her dress.&nbsp; "Don't pull so,
Sally.&nbsp; Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?"&nbsp; Ruby
had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, but
had not as yet received any reply.&nbsp; Paul, whose mind was
altogether intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he
knew nothing about Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs Hurtle's
room.

<p>"So you have come," she said, without rising from her chair.

<p>"Of course I came, when you desired it."

<p>"I don't know why you should.&nbsp; My wishes do not seem to
affect you much.&nbsp; Will you sit down there?" she said, pointing
to a seat at some distance from herself.&nbsp; "So you think it
would be best that you and I should never see each other
again?"&nbsp; She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the
quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might be converted
into violence.&nbsp; He thought that there was that in her eye
which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.

<p>"I did think so certainly.&nbsp; What more can I say?"

<p>"Oh, nothing; clearly nothing."&nbsp; Her voice was very
low.&nbsp; "Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more
than that he has changed his mind?&nbsp; Why make a fuss about such
little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?"&nbsp; Then
she paused.&nbsp; "And having come, in consequence of my
unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace."

<p>"I came because I promised."

<p>"But you did not promise to speak;&mdash;did you?"

<p>"What would you have me say?"

<p>"Ah what!&nbsp; Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I
would have you say?&nbsp; Suppose you were to say, 'I am a
gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended
perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that
way?&nbsp; Might it not be possible that I should reply that as
your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;&mdash;that I
scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?"&nbsp; As she
asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself
in her seat, stretching herself towards him.

<p>"You might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say.

<p>"But I should not.&nbsp; I at least will be true.&nbsp; I should
take you, Paul,&mdash;still take you; with a confidence that I should
yet win you to me by my devotion.&nbsp; I have still some kindness
of feeling towards you,&mdash;none to that woman who is I suppose
younger than I, and gentler, and a maid."&nbsp; She still looked as
though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in
answer to this.&nbsp; "Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is
there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next?&nbsp;
I have given up every friend in the world for you.&nbsp; I have no
home.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin's room here is more my home than any other
spot on the earth.&nbsp; I have all the world to choose from, but
no reason whatever for a choice.&nbsp; I have my property.&nbsp;
What shall I do with it, Paul?&nbsp; If I could die and be no more
heard of, you should be welcome to it."&nbsp; There was no answer
possible to all this.&nbsp; The questions were asked because there
was no answer possible.&nbsp; "You might at any rate advise
me.&nbsp; Paul, you are in some degree responsible,&mdash;are you
not,&mdash;for my loneliness?"

<p>"I am.&nbsp; But you know that I cannot answer your questions."

<p>"You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my
future life.&nbsp; As far as I can see, I had better remain
here.&nbsp; I do good at any rate to Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; She went
into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her.&nbsp; That
woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate
in this."&nbsp; Then she paused, and there was absolute silence for
a minute.&nbsp; "You thought my letter very short; did you not?"

<p>"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."

<p>"No, indeed.&nbsp; I did have much more to say.&nbsp; That was
the third letter I wrote.&nbsp; Now you shall see the other
two.&nbsp; I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send
you.&nbsp; I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either
one of mine.&nbsp; You had no doubts, you know.&nbsp; I had many
doubts.&nbsp; I could not send them all by post, together.&nbsp;
But you may see them all now.&nbsp; There is one.&nbsp; You may
read that first.&nbsp; While I was writing it, I was determined
that that should go."&nbsp; Then she handed him the sheet of paper
which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

<p>"I am glad you did not send that," he said.

<p>"I meant it."

<p>"But you have changed your mind?"

<p>"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be
unreasonable?&nbsp; Speak out and tell me."

<p>"I am thinking of you, not of myself."

<p>"Think of me, then.&nbsp; Is there anything said there which the
usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?"

<p>"You ask me questions which I cannot answer.&nbsp; I do not
think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."

<p>"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,&mdash;who amuse
themselves,&mdash;that women should have that opinion.&nbsp; But, upon
my word, I don't know what to say about that.&nbsp; As long as
there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the
fighting to the men.&nbsp; But when a woman has no one to help her,
is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use
her?&nbsp; Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine
in her to fight for her own skin?&nbsp; What is the good of
being&mdash;feminine, as you call it?&nbsp; Have you asked yourself
that?&nbsp; That men may be attracted, I should say.&nbsp; But if a
woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness,
shall she not throw it off?&nbsp; If she be treated as prey, shall
she not fight as a beast of prey?&nbsp; Oh, no;&mdash;it is so
unfeminine!&nbsp; I also, Paul, had thought of that.&nbsp; The
charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft
moment,&mdash;and then I wrote this other letter.&nbsp; You may as well
see them all."&nbsp; And so she handed him the scrap which had been
written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

<p>He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his
eyes.&nbsp; But, having mastered its contents, he came across the
room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing.&nbsp; "I
have not sent it, you know," she said.&nbsp; "I only show it you
that you may see how my mind has been at work"

<p>"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.

<p>"Nay, I would not hurt you,&mdash;not at this moment.&nbsp; Sometimes
I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my
disappointment, so ungovernable my rage!&nbsp; Why,&mdash;why should I
be such a victim?&nbsp; Why should life be an utter blank to me,
while you have everything before you?&nbsp; There, you have seen
them all.&nbsp; Which will you have?"

<p>"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."

<p>"But it will be when you have left me;&mdash;and was when you were
with me at the sea-side.&nbsp; And it was so I felt when I got your
first letter in San Francisco.&nbsp; Why should you kneel
there?&nbsp; You do not love me.&nbsp; A man should kneel to a
woman for love, not for pardon."&nbsp; But though she spoke thus,
she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and
looked into his face.&nbsp; "I wonder whether that other woman
loves you.&nbsp; I do not want an answer, Paul.&nbsp; I suppose you
had better go."&nbsp; She took his hand and pressed it to her
breast.&nbsp; "Tell me one thing.&nbsp; When you spoke
of&mdash;compensation, did you mean&mdash;money?"

<p>"No; indeed no."

<p>"I hope not,&mdash;I hope not that.&nbsp; Well, there;&mdash;go.&nbsp; You
shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle."&nbsp; She took the
sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore
it into scraps.

<p>"And am I to keep the other?" he asked.

<p>"No.&nbsp; For what purpose would you have it?&nbsp; To prove my
weakness?&nbsp; That also shall be destroyed."&nbsp; But she took
it and restored it to her pocket-book.

<p>"Good-bye, my friend," he said.

<p>"Nay!&nbsp; This parting will not bear a farewell.&nbsp; Go, and
let there be no other word spoken."&nbsp; And so he went.

<p>As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the
bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs Pipkin to come to her.&nbsp; "Mrs
Pipkin," she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room;
"everything is over between me and Mr Montague."&nbsp; She was
standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there
was a smile on her face.

<p>"Lord 'a mercy," said Mrs Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

<p>"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it
right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."

<p>"And why not?&mdash;and he such a nice young man,&mdash;and quiet too."

<p>"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak
about that.&nbsp; But it is so.&nbsp; I was engaged to him."

<p>"I'm well sure of that, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"And now I'm no longer engaged to him.&nbsp; That's all."

<p>"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and
all."&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear
no more of such an interesting story.

<p>"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back
not together.&nbsp; And there's an end of it."

<p>"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; When a marriage
is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."

<p>"There's an end of it, Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; If you please, we won't
say anything more about it."

<p>"And are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs Pipkin, prepared
to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice.&nbsp; Where
should she get such another lodger as Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;a lady who not
only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting
that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and
who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in
the house!

<p>"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs Pipkin."&nbsp; Then Mrs
Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help
that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her
lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="52"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LII.&nbsp; The Results of Love and Wine</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix
Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday.&nbsp; More than once or
twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he
feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle
words.&nbsp; But his condition was one which only admits of short
snatches of uneasy slumber.&nbsp; From head to foot, he was sick
and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere.&nbsp; To lie
where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of
his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be
safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his
reach.&nbsp; Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page
he was awake.&nbsp; The boy brought him tea.&nbsp; He asked for
soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present
condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured
for him.

<p>The world surely was now all over to him.&nbsp; He had made
arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day,
and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without
him.&nbsp; The details of their arrangement had been such that she
absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean
before she could find out that he had failed to keep his
appointment.&nbsp; Melmotte's hostility would be incurred by the
attempt, and hers by the failure.&nbsp; Then he had lost all his
money,&mdash;and hers.&nbsp; He had induced his poor mother to assist in
raising a fund for him,&mdash;and even that was gone.&nbsp; He was so
cowed that he was afraid even of his mother.&nbsp; And he could
remember something, but no details, of some row at the club,&mdash;but
still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row.&nbsp;
Ah,&mdash;when would he summon courage to enter the club again?&nbsp;
When could he show himself again anywhere?&nbsp; All the world
would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him,
and that at the last moment he had failed her.&nbsp; What lie could
he invent to cover his disgrace?&nbsp; And his clothes!&nbsp; All
his things were at the club;&mdash;or he thought that they were, not
being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry
them off to the Railway Station.&nbsp; He had heard of
suicide.&nbsp; If ever it could be well that a man should cut his
own throat, surely the time had come for him now.&nbsp; But as this
idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around
him and tried to sleep.&nbsp; The death of Cato would hardly have
for him persuasive charms.

<p>Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when
he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder.&nbsp;
There must be some end to this.&nbsp; He must at any rate be
fed.&nbsp; She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day,&mdash;thinking
of it.&nbsp; As regarded her son himself; his condition told his
story with sufficient accuracy.&nbsp; What might be the fate of the
girl she could not stop to inquire.&nbsp; She had not heard all the
details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had
proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on
Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of
aiding him in his object she had helped him with money.&nbsp; She
had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two
days preparing for his long journey,&mdash;having told some lie to her
own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended
journey.&nbsp; He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded,
back to the house.&nbsp; She had searched his pockets with less
scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for
the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him.&nbsp;
About him she could read the riddle plainly.&nbsp; He had stayed at
his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his
money.&nbsp; When she had first seen him she had asked herself what
further lie she should now tell to her daughter.&nbsp; At breakfast
there was instant need for some story.&nbsp; "Mary says that Felix
came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all," Hetta
exclaimed.&nbsp; The poor woman could not bring herself to expose
the vices of the son to her daughter.&nbsp; She could not say that
he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock.&nbsp; Hetta no
doubt had her own suspicions.&nbsp; "Yes; he has come back," said
Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles.&nbsp; "It was some
plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken
through.&nbsp; He is very unhappy and not well.&nbsp; I will see to
him."&nbsp; After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole
day.&nbsp; And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was
standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to
her.

<p>"Felix," she said,&mdash;"speak to me, Felix.&mdash;I know that you are
awake."&nbsp; He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying
himself further under the bedclothes.&nbsp; "You must get up for
your dinner.&nbsp; It is near six o'clock."

<p>"All right," he said at last.

<p>"What is the meaning of this, Felix?&nbsp; You must tell
me.&nbsp; It must be told sooner or later.&nbsp; I know you are
unhappy.&nbsp; You had better trust your mother."

<p>"I am so sick, mother."

<p>"You will be better up.&nbsp; What were you doing last
night?&nbsp; What has come of it all?&nbsp; Where are your things?"

<p>"At the club.&mdash;You had better leave me now, and let Sam
come up to me."&nbsp; Sam was the page.

<p>"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about
this.&nbsp; What has been done?"

<p>"It hasn't come off."

<p>"But how has it not come off?"

<p>"I didn't get away.&nbsp; What's the good of asking?"

<p>"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr Melmotte had
discovered it."

<p>"Did I?&nbsp; Then I suppose he has.&nbsp; Oh, mother, I wish I
could die.&nbsp; I don't see what's the use of anything.&nbsp; I
won't get up to dinner.&nbsp; I'd rather stay here."

<p>"You must have something to eat, Felix."

<p>"Sam can bring it me.&nbsp; Do let him get me some brandy and
water.&nbsp; I'm so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly
bear myself.&nbsp; I can't talk now.&nbsp; If he'll get me a bottle
of soda water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then."

<p>"Where is the money, Felix?"

<p>"I paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to
his head.

<p>Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he
was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that
he was to give her some further explanation when he had been
refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription.&nbsp; The boy
went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up
to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion
from his misery in sleep.

<p>"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.

<p>"Yes, my dear."

<p>"Had you not better send for a doctor?"

<p>"No, my dear.&nbsp; He will be better to-morrow."

<p>"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me
everything."

<p>"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears.&nbsp;
"Don't ask.&nbsp; What's the good of asking?&nbsp; It is all misery
and wretchedness.&nbsp; There is nothing to tell,&mdash;except that I am
ruined."

<p>"Has he done anything, mamma?"

<p>"No.&nbsp; What should he have done?&nbsp; How am I to know what
he does?&nbsp; He tells me nothing.&nbsp; Don't talk about it any
more.&nbsp; Oh, God,&mdash;how much better it would be to be childless!"

<p>"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the
room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the
sofa.&nbsp; "Mamma, say that you do not mean me."

<p>"It concerns you as well as me and him.&nbsp; I wish I were
childless."

<p>"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me!&nbsp; Am I not good to
you?&nbsp; Do I not try to be a comfort to you?"

<p>"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and
who can protect you.&nbsp; You can, at any rate, find a home for
yourself, and a friend for us.&nbsp; You are not like Felix.&nbsp;
You do not get drunk and gamble,&mdash;because you are a woman.&nbsp;
But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble."

<p>"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"

<p>"Love!&nbsp; Have I been able to love?&nbsp; Do you see much of
what you call love around you?&nbsp; Why should you not love
him?&nbsp; He is a gentleman, and a good man,&mdash;soft-hearted, of a
sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours
happy.&nbsp; You think that Felix is very bad."

<p>"I have never said so."

<p>"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing
what you could do for us if you would.&nbsp; But it never occurs to
you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."

<p>Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother
again went upstairs she turned it all over in her mind.&nbsp; Could
it be right that she should marry one man when she loved
another?&nbsp; Could it be right that she should marry at all, for
the sake of doing good to her family?&nbsp; This man, whom she
might marry if she would,&mdash;who did in truth worship the ground on
which she trod,&mdash;was, she well knew, all that her mother had
said.&nbsp; And he was more than that.&nbsp; Her mother had spoken
of his soft heart, and his sweet nature.&nbsp; But Hetta knew also
that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage.&nbsp; In such
a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she
could have asked,&mdash;had he not been the very lover who was desirous
of making her his wife.&nbsp; Hetta felt that she could sacrifice
much for her mother.&nbsp; Money, if she had it, she could have
given, though she left herself penniless.&nbsp; Her time, her
inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her
life, she could give.&nbsp; She could doom herself to poverty, and
loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake.&nbsp;
But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a
man she did not love.

<p>"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his
mother.&nbsp; She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool,
whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news
had reached him from Marie that she had been stopped, or
whether,&mdash;as might have been possible,&mdash;Marie had changed her own
mind.&nbsp; But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, or
any story bordering on the truth.&nbsp; "It didn't come off," he
said, "and of course that knocked me off my legs.&nbsp; Well;
yes.&nbsp; I did take some champagne when I found how it was.&nbsp;
A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing.&nbsp; Oh, I heard
it at the club,&mdash;that the whole thing was off.&nbsp; I can't
explain anything more.&nbsp; And then I was so mad, I can't tell
what I was after.&nbsp; I did get the ticket.&nbsp; There it
is.&nbsp; That shows I was in earnest.&nbsp; I spent the &pound;30
in getting it.&nbsp; I suppose the change is there.&nbsp; Don't
take it, for I haven't another shilling in the world."&nbsp; Of
course he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had
himself received from Melmotte.&nbsp; And as his mother had heard
nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said.&nbsp;
She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there
was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.

<p>That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr Broune called in Welbeck
Street.&nbsp; He very often did call now, coming up in a cab,
staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the
office of his newspaper.&nbsp; Since Lady Carbury had, so
devotedly, abstained from accepting his offer, Mr Broune had become
almost sincerely attached to her.&nbsp; There was certainly between
them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever
existed in earlier days.&nbsp; He spoke to her more freely about
his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt
at truth.&nbsp; There was never between them now even a shade of
love-making.&nbsp; She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold
her hand.&nbsp; As for kissing her,&mdash;he thought no more of it than
of kissing the maid-servant.&nbsp; But he spoke to her of the
things that worried him,&mdash;the unreasonable exactions of
proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors.&nbsp; He
told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an
Atlas would have succumbed.&nbsp; And he told her something too of
his triumphs;&mdash;how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment
for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be
an enemy.&nbsp; And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice
and clemency.&nbsp; Ah,&mdash;if men and women only knew his good nature
and his patriotism;&mdash;how he had spared the rod here, how he had
made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country
millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand
truth!&nbsp; Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by
flattery, and little confidences of her own.&nbsp; Under his
teaching she had almost made up her mind to give up Mr Alf.&nbsp;
Of nothing was Mr Broune more certain than that Mr Alf was making a
fool of himself in regard to the Westminster election and those
attacks on Melmotte.&nbsp; "The world of London generally knows
what it is about," said Mr Broune, "and the London world believes
Mr Melmotte to be sound.&nbsp; I don't pretend to say that he has
never done anything that he ought not to do.&nbsp; I am not going
into his antecedents.&nbsp; But he is a man of wealth, power, and
genius, and Alf will get the worst of it."&nbsp; Under such
teaching as this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr
Alf.

<p>Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom
also Mr Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury
would be in her own sanctum.&nbsp; On this evening she received him
there, and at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix.&nbsp;
On this occasion she told him everything, and almost told him
everything truly.&nbsp; He had already heard the story.&nbsp; "The
young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there."

<p>"He could not have been there.&nbsp; He has been in bed in this
house all day.&nbsp; Did she go?"

<p>"So I am told;&mdash;and was met at the station by the senior officer
of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without
letting her go down to the ship at all.&nbsp; She must have thought
that her lover was on board;&mdash;probably thinks so now.&nbsp; I pity
her."

<p>"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to
start," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Yes; that would have been bad.&nbsp; She would have had a sad
journey to New York, and a sadder journey back.&nbsp; Has your son
told you anything about money?"

<p>"What money?"

<p>"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she
had taken from her father.&nbsp; If that be so he certainly ought
to lose no time in restoring it.&nbsp; It might be done through
some friend.&nbsp; I would do it, for that matter.&nbsp; If it be
so,&mdash;to avoid unpleasantness,&mdash;it should be sent back at
once.&nbsp; It will be for his credit."&nbsp; This Mr Broune said
with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.

<p>It was dreadful to Lady Carbury.&nbsp; She had no money to give
back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son.&nbsp; She had heard
nothing of any money.&nbsp; What did Mr Broune mean by a large
sum?&nbsp; "That would be dreadful," she said.

<p>"Had you not better ask him about it?"

<p>Lady Carbury was again in tears.&nbsp; She knew that she could
not hope to get a word of truth from her son.&nbsp; "What do you
mean by a large sum?"

<p>"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."

<p>"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr Broune."&nbsp; Then it
all came out,&mdash;the whole story of her poverty, as it had been
brought about by her son's misconduct.&nbsp; She told him every
detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband, and his
will, up to the present moment.

<p>"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury."&nbsp; Lady Carbury thought
that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing.&nbsp;
"You must put a stop to this."

<p>"But how?"

<p>"You must rid yourself of him.&nbsp; It is dreadful to say so,
but it must be done.&nbsp; You must not see your daughter
ruined.&nbsp; Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I
will see that it is repaid.&nbsp; That must be done;&mdash;and we will
then try to get him to go abroad.&nbsp; No;&mdash;do not contradict
me.&nbsp; We can talk of the money another time.&nbsp; I must be
off now, as I have stayed too long.&nbsp; Do as I bid you.&nbsp;
Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office.&nbsp; If
you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best.&nbsp; God
bless you."&nbsp; And so he hurried off.

<p>Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was
put into Mr Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as
she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix.&nbsp; Sir Felix
declared that Mr Melmotte had owed him &pound;600, and that he had
received &pound;250 out of this from Miss Melmotte,&mdash;so that there
was still a large balance due to him.&nbsp; Lady Carbury went on to
say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money
at play.&nbsp; The story was fairly true; but Lady Carbury in her
letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it
because it was told to her by her son.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="53"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LIII.&nbsp; A Day in the City</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let
the matter rest there.&nbsp; He would probably have done so had he
not known that all his own household were aware that she had gone
off to meet Sir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the
condolence of certain friends in the city.&nbsp; It seemed that
about two o'clock in the day the matter was known to
everybody.&nbsp; Of course Lord Nidderdale would hear of it, and if
so all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would have
been taken in vain.&nbsp; Stupid fool of a girl to throw away her
chance,&mdash;nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant career, in
that way!&nbsp; But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely more
bitter than his anger against his daughter.&nbsp; The man had
pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,&mdash;had given a
written pledge,&mdash;had renounced under his own signature his
intention of marrying Marie!&nbsp; Melmotte had of course learned
all the details of the cheque for &pound;250,&mdash;how the money had
been paid at the bank to Didon, and how Didon had given it to Sir
Felix.&nbsp; Marie herself acknowledged that Sir Felix had received
the money.&nbsp; If possible he would prosecute the baronet for
stealing his money.

<p>Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably
have been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have
allowed the money to go without further trouble.&nbsp; At this
especial point in his career ready money was very valuable to him,
but his concerns were of such magnitude that &pound;250 could make
but little difference.&nbsp; But there had grown upon the man
during the last few months an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired
in him by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect,
and robbed him of much of that power of calculation which
undoubtedly he naturally possessed.&nbsp; He remembered perfectly
his various little transactions with Sir Felix.&nbsp; Indeed it was
one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions,
whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head,
which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy.&nbsp; He
knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom
he had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father
and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of
the purchase of Pickering.&nbsp; But Sir Felix's money had been
consigned into his hands for the purchase of shares,&mdash;and that
consignment did not justify Six Felix in taking another sum of
money from his daughter.&nbsp; In such a matter he thought that an
English magistrate, and an English jury, would all be on his
side,&mdash; especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about to be
chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor of
China!

<p>The next day was Friday,&mdash;the day of the Railway Board.&nbsp;
Early in the morning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR NIDDERDALE,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pray come to the Board to-day;&mdash;or at
any rate come to me in the city.&nbsp; I specially want to speak to
you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A. M.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to
make a clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law.&nbsp; If
there was still a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that
chance would be best supported by perfect openness on his
part.&nbsp; The young lord would of course know what Marie had
done.&nbsp; But the young lord had for some weeks past been aware
that there had been a difficulty in regard to Sir Felix Carbury,
and had not on that account relaxed his suit.&nbsp; It might be
possible to persuade the young lord that as the young lady had now
tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the whole
be rather improved than injured.

<p>Mr Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of
the earliest and most unfortunate was Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; At that
time there had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode
of double ingress and egress,&mdash;a front stairs and a back stairs
approach and exit, as is always necessary with very great men,&mdash;in
reference to which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to
each is exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the
world; the front stairs being intended for everybody, and being
both slow and uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and
sure, and are used only for those who are favoured.&nbsp; Miles
Grendall had the command of the stairs, and found that he had
plenty to do in keeping people in their right courses.&nbsp; Mr
Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane before one,&mdash;having altogether
failed in getting a moment's private conversation with the big man
on that other Friday, when he had come later.&nbsp; He fell at once
into Miles's hands, and was ushered through the front stairs
passage and into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external
courtesy.&nbsp; Miles Grendall was very voluble.&nbsp; Did Mr
Longestaffe want to see Mr Melmotte?&nbsp; Oh;&mdash;Mr Longestaffe
wanted to see Mr Melmotte as soon as possible!&nbsp; Of course Mr
Longestaffe should see Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; He, Miles, knew that Mr
Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp;
Mr Melmotte had mentioned Mr Longestaffe's name twice during the
last three days.&nbsp; Would Mr Longestaffe sit down for a few
minutes?&nbsp; Had Mr Longestaffe seen the "Morning Breakfast
Table"?&nbsp; Mr Melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged.&nbsp;
At this moment a deputation from the Canadian Government was with
him;&mdash;and Sir Gregory Gribe was in the office waiting for a few
words.&nbsp; But Miles thought that the Canadian Government would
not be long,&mdash;and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be
postponed.&nbsp; Miles would do his very best to get an interview
for Mr Longestaffe,&mdash;more especially as Mr Melmotte was so very
desirous himself of seeing his friend.&nbsp; It was astonishing
that such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business
so well and should have made himself so handy!&nbsp; We will leave
Mr Longestaffe with the "Morning Breakfast Table" in his hands, in
the front waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he
remained for something over two hours.

<p>In the meantime both Mr Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the
office, and both were received without delay.&nbsp; Mr Broune was
the first.&nbsp; Miles knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat
him in the same room with Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; "I'll just send him
a note," said Mr Broune, and he scrawled a few words at the office
counter.&nbsp; "I'm commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of
Miss Melmotte."&nbsp; Those were the words, and they at once
procured him admission to the sanctum.&nbsp; The Canadian
Deputation must have taken its leave, and Sir Gregory could hardly
have as yet arrived.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale, who had presented
himself almost at the same moment with the Editor, was shown into a
little private room which was, indeed, Miles Grendall's own
retreat.&nbsp; "What's up with the Governor?" asked the young lord.

<p>"Anything particular do you mean?" said Miles.&nbsp; "There are
always so many things up here."

<p>"He has sent for me."

<p>"Yes,&mdash;you'll go in directly.&nbsp; There's that fellow who does
the "Breakfast Table" in with him.&nbsp; I don't know what he's
come about.&nbsp; You know what he has sent for you for?"

<p>Lord Nidderdale answered this question by another.&nbsp; "I
suppose all this about Miss Melmotte is true?"

<p>"She did go off yesterday morning," said Miles, in a whisper.

<p>"But Carbury wasn't with her."

<p>"Well, no;&mdash;I suppose not.&nbsp; He seems to have mulled
it.&nbsp; He's such a d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; brute, he'd be
sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand."

<p>"You don't like him, of course, Miles.&nbsp; For that matter
I've no reason to love him.&nbsp; He couldn't have gone.&nbsp; He
staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock as
drunk as Cloe.&nbsp; He'd lost a pot of money, and had been kicking
up a row about you for the last hour."

<p>"Brute!" exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation.

<p>"I dare say.&nbsp; But though he was able to make a row, I'm
sure he couldn't get himself down to Liverpool.&nbsp; And I saw all
his things lying about the club hall late last night;&mdash;no end of
portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to New
York.&nbsp; By George!&nbsp; Fancy taking a girl to New York!&nbsp;
It was plucky."

<p>"It was all her doing," said Miles, who was of course intimate
with Mr Melmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore
of hearing the true story.

<p>"What a fiasco!" said the young lord.&nbsp; "I wonder what the
old boy means to say to me about it."&nbsp; Then there was heard
the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord
Nidderdale that his time had come.

<p>Mr Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr Melmotte, and
Melmotte was correspondingly gracious.&nbsp; On seeing the Editor
he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the
support given by the "Breakfast Table" to his candidature.&nbsp;
But Mr Broune cut him short.&nbsp; "I never talk about the
'Breakfast Table,'" said he.&nbsp; "We endeavour to get along as
right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended."&nbsp;
Melmotte bowed.&nbsp; "I have come now about quite another matter,
and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also.&nbsp;
Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in
trust from your daughter.&nbsp; Circumstances have prevented its
use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix's friend,
I have called to return the money to you."&nbsp; Mr Broune did not
like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that
for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him.

<p>"Oh, indeed," said Mr Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which
he would have repressed if he could.

<p>"No doubt you understand all about it."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I understand.&nbsp; D&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;
scoundrel!"

<p>"We won't discuss that, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; I've drawn a cheque
myself payable to your order,&mdash;to make the matter all
straight.&nbsp; The sum was &pound;250, I think."&nbsp; And Mr
Broune put a cheque for that amount down upon the table.

<p>"I dare say it's all right," said Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; "But,
remember, I don't think that this absolves him.&nbsp; He has been a
scoundrel."

<p>"At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into
his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young
lady's behalf.&nbsp; Good morning."&nbsp; Mr Melmotte did put out
his hand in token of amity.&nbsp; Then Mr Broune departed and
Melmotte tinkled his bell.&nbsp; As Nidderdale was shown in he
crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his pocket.&nbsp; He was at
once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have
had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned.&nbsp; "Well, my
Lord, and how are you?" said he with his pleasantest smile.&nbsp;
Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint.&nbsp; "You
don't look down in the mouth, my Lord."

<p>Then Lord Nidderdale,&mdash;who no doubt felt that it behoved him to
show a good face before his late intended father-in-law,&mdash;sang the
refrain of an old song, which it is trusted my readers may
remember.

<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>
     Cheer up, Sam;<br>
     Don't let your spirits go down.<br>
     There's many a girl that I know well,<br>
     Is waiting for you in the town.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>

<p>"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Melmotte, "very good.&nbsp; I've no doubt
there is,&mdash;many a one.&nbsp; But you won't let this stupid nonsense
stand in your way with Marie."

<p>"Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that.&nbsp; Miss Melmotte
has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another
gentleman, and of her indifference to me."

<p>"A foolish baggage!&nbsp; A silly little romantic baggage!&nbsp;
She's been reading novels till she has learned to think she
couldn't settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody."

<p>"She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr
Melmotte."

<p>"No;&mdash;of course we had her back again from Liverpool."

<p>"But they say that she got further than the gentleman."

<p>"He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel.&nbsp; My girl knows very
well what he is now.&nbsp; She'll never try that game again.&nbsp;
Of course, my Lord, I'm very sorry.&nbsp; You know that I've been
on the square with you always.&nbsp; She's my only child, and
sooner or later she must have all that I possess.&nbsp; What she
will have at once will make any man wealthy,&mdash;that is, if she
marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I
shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my
capital.&nbsp; Of course you understand that I desire to see her
occupying high rank.&nbsp; I think that, in this country, that is a
noble object of ambition.&nbsp; Had she married that sweep I should
have broken my heart.&nbsp; Now, my Lord, I want you to say that
this shall make no difference to you.&nbsp; I am very honest with
you.&nbsp; I do not try to hide anything.&nbsp; The thing of course
has been a misfortune.&nbsp; Girls will be romantic.&nbsp; But you
may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than
impede your views.&nbsp; After this she will not be very fond of
Sir Felix Carbury."

<p>"I dare say not.&nbsp; Though, by Jove, girls will forgive
anything."

<p>"She won't forgive him.&nbsp; By George, she shan't.&nbsp; She
shall hear the whole story.&nbsp; You'll come and see her just the
same as ever!"

<p>"I don't know about that, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Why not?&nbsp; You're not so weak as to surrender all your
settled projects for such a piece of folly as that!&nbsp; He didn't
even see her all the time."

<p>"That wasn't her fault."

<p>"The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale."

<p>"The money's all right, I've no doubt.&nbsp; And there isn't a
man in all London would be better pleased to settle down with a
good income than I would.&nbsp; But, by Jove, it's a rather strong
order when a girl has just run away with another man.&nbsp;
Everybody knows it."

<p>"In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it."

<p>"To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a
will of her own stronger than you give her credit for.&nbsp; She
has never given me the slightest encouragement.&nbsp; Ever so long
ago, about Christmas, she did once say that she would do as you
bade her.&nbsp; But she is very much changed since then.&nbsp; The
thing was off."

<p>"She had nothing to do with that."

<p>"No;&mdash;but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right to
complain."

<p>"You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow.&nbsp;
Or come on Sunday morning.&nbsp; Don't let us be done out of all
our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl.&nbsp; Will
you come on Sunday morning about noon?"&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale
thought of his position for a few moments and then said that
perhaps he would come on Sunday morning.&nbsp; After that Melmotte
proposed that they two should go and "get a bit of lunch" at a
certain Conservative club in the City.&nbsp; There would be time
before the meeting of the Railway Board.&nbsp; Nidderdale had no
objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the
Board was "rot".&nbsp; "That's all very well for you, young man,"
said the chairman, "but I must go there in order that you may be
able to enjoy a splendid fortune."&nbsp; Then he touched the young
man on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the
front stairs.&nbsp; "Come this way, Nidderdale;&mdash;come this
way.&nbsp; I must get out without being seen.&nbsp; There are
people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to
business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his
mouth."&nbsp; And so they escaped by the back stairs.

<p>At the club, the City Conservative world,&mdash;which always lunches
well,&mdash;welcomed Mr Melmotte very warmly.&nbsp; The election was
coming on, and there was much to be said.&nbsp; He played the part
of the big City man to perfection, standing about the room with his
hat on, and talking loudly to a dozen men at once.&nbsp; And he was
glad to show the club that Lord Nidderdale had come there with
him.&nbsp; The club of course knew that Lord Nidderdale was the
accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter,&mdash;accepted, that is, by
the rich man himself,&mdash;and the club knew also that the rich man's
daughter had tried but had failed to run away with Sir Felix
Carbury.&nbsp; There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and
having done with it.&nbsp; The presence of Lord Nidderdale was
almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped
out, and, as it were, abolished.&nbsp; A little before three Mr
Melmotte returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by
the back way; while Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering
within his own mind whether it was expedient that he should
continue to show himself as a suitor for Miss Melmotte's
hand.&nbsp; He had an idea that a few years ago a man could not
have done such a thing&mdash;that he would be held to show a poor spirit
should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter what a
man did,&mdash;if only he were successful.&nbsp; "After all, it's only
an affair of money," he said to himself.

<p>Mr Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to
impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to
indignation.&nbsp; More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles
Grendall was always ready with an answer.&nbsp; That Canadian
Deputation was determined to settle the whole business this
morning, and would not take itself away.&nbsp; And Sir Gregory
Gribe had been obstinate, beyond the ordinary obstinacy of a bank
director.&nbsp; The rate of discount at the bank could not be
settled for to-morrow without communication with Mr Melmotte, and
that was a matter on which the details were always most
oppressive.&nbsp; At first Mr Longestaffe was somewhat stunned by
the Deputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth the
potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he
waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him.&nbsp; Was he not Mr
Longestaffe of Caversham, a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and
accustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock?&nbsp; When he had
been in that waiting-room for two hours, it occurred to him that he
only wanted his own, and that he would not remain there to be
starved for any Mr Melmotte in Europe.&nbsp; It occurred to him
also that that thorn in his side, Squercum, would certainly get a
finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance.&nbsp; Then he walked
forth, and attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time.&nbsp; But
Miles Grendall also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by
one of the junior clerks to be engaged at that moment on most
important business with Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; "Then say that I can't
wait any longer," said Mr Longestaffe, stamping out of the room
with angry feet.

<p>At the very door he met Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; "Ah, Mr Longestaffe,"
said the great financier, seizing him by the hand, "you are the
very man I am desirous of seeing."

<p>"I have been waiting two hours up in your place," said the
Squire of Caversham.

<p>"Tut, tut, tut;&mdash;and they never told me!"

<p>"I spoke to Mr Grendall half a dozen times."

<p>"Yes,&mdash;yes.&nbsp; And he did put a slip with your name on it on my
desk.&nbsp; I do remember.&nbsp; My dear sir, I have so many things
on my brain, that I hardly know how to get along with them.&nbsp;
You are coming to the Board?&nbsp; It's just the time now."

<p>"No;"&mdash;said Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; "I can stay no longer in the
City."&nbsp; It was cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to
go to a Board by a chairman who had just lunched at his club.

<p>"I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help
myself," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "And when they get me there I can
never get away again."

<p>"My son is very anxious to have the payments made about
Pickering," said Mr Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the
collar of his coat.

<p>"Payments for Pickering!" said Melmotte, assuming an air of
unimportant doubt,&mdash;of doubt as though the thing were of no real
moment.&nbsp; "Haven't they been made?"

<p>"Certainly not," said Mr Longestaffe, "unless made this
morning."

<p>"There was something about it, but I cannot just remember
what.&nbsp; My second cashier, Mr Smith, manages all my private
affairs, and they go clean out of my head.&nbsp; I'm afraid he's in
Grosvenor Square at this moment.&nbsp; Let me
see;&mdash;Pickering!&nbsp; Wasn't there some question of a
mortgage?&nbsp; I'm sure there was something about a mortgage."

<p>"There was a mortgage, of course,&mdash;but that only made three
payments necessary instead of two."

<p>"But there was some unavoidable delay about the
papers;&mdash;something occasioned by the mortgagee.&nbsp; I know there
was.&nbsp; But you shan't be inconvenienced, Mr Longestaffe."

<p>"It's my son, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; He's got a lawyer of his own."

<p>"I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money,"
said Melmotte laughing.&nbsp; "Oh, yes;&mdash;there were three payments
to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the
mortgagee.&nbsp; I will speak to Mr Smith myself to-morrow&mdash;and you
may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer.&nbsp;
He will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive.&nbsp;
What! you won't come to the Board?&nbsp; I am sorry for
that."&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe, having after a fashion said what he
had to say, declined to go to the Board.&nbsp; A painful rumour had
reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him in a
very quiet way by a very old friend,&mdash;by a member of a private firm
of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most
eminent man of his acquaintance,&mdash;that Pickering had been already
mortgaged to its full value by its new owner.&nbsp; "Mind, I know
nothing," said the banker.&nbsp; "The report has reached me, and if
it be true, it shows that Mr Melmotte must be much pressed for
money.&nbsp; It does not concern you at all if you have got your
price.&nbsp; But it seems to be rather a quick transaction.&nbsp; I
suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title-deeds."&nbsp; Mr
Longestaffe thanked his friend, and acknowledged that there had
been something remiss on his part.&nbsp; Therefore, as he went
westward, he was low in spirits.&nbsp; But nevertheless he had been
reassured by Melmotte's manner.

<p>Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did
Paul Montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made
acquainted.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough
of the City for that day, and Mr Longestaffe had been banished by
hunger.&nbsp; The chairman was therefore supported only by Lord
Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; But they were such excellent
colleagues that the work was got through as well as though those
absentees had all attended.&nbsp; When the Board was over Mr
Melmotte and Mr Cohenlupe retired together.

<p>"I must get that money for Longestaffe," said Melmotte to his
friend.

<p>"What, eighty thousand pounds!&nbsp; You can't do it this
week,&mdash;nor yet before this day week."

<p>"It isn't eighty thousand pounds.&nbsp; I've renewed the
mortgage, and that makes it only fifty.&nbsp; If I can manage the
half of that which goes to the son, I can put the father off."

<p>"You must raise what you can on the whole property."

<p>"I've done that already," said Melmotte hoarsely.

<p>"And where's the money gone?"

<p>"Brehgert has had &pound;40,000.&nbsp; I was obliged to keep it
up with them.&nbsp; You can manage &pound;25,000 for me by
Monday?"&nbsp; Mr Cohenlupe said that he would try, but intimated
his opinion that there would be considerable difficulty in the
operation.&nbsp;
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="54"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LIV.&nbsp; The India Office</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>The Conservative party at this particular period was putting its
shoulder to the wheel,&mdash;not to push the coach up any hill, but to
prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only
dangerous, but manifestly destructive.&nbsp; The Conservative party
now and then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with
the great national object above named; but also actuated by a
natural desire to keep its own head well above water and be
generally doing something, so that other parties may not suppose
that it is moribund.&nbsp; There are, no doubt, members of it who
really think that when some object has been achieved,&mdash;when, for
instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed into Parliament for the
borough of Porcorum, which for the last three parliaments has been
represented by a Liberal,&mdash;the coach has been really stopped.&nbsp;
To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at these triumphant
moments a conviction that after all the people as a people have not
been really in earnest in their efforts to take something from the
greatness of the great, and to add something to the lowliness of
the lowly.&nbsp; The handle of the windlass has been broken, the
wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of Radical
progress is running back.&nbsp; Who knows what may not be regained
if the Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel
and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended!&nbsp;
Sticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has
just been carried by a majority of fifteen!&nbsp; A long pull, a
strong pull, and a pull altogether,&mdash;and the old day will come back
again.&nbsp; Venerable patriarchs think of Lord Liverpool and other
heroes, and dream dreams of Conservative bishops, Conservative
lord-lieutenants, and of a Conservative ministry that shall remain
in for a generation.

<p>Such a time was now present.&nbsp; Porcorum and Sticinthemud had
done their duty valiantly,&mdash;with much management.&nbsp; But
Westminster!&nbsp; If this special seat for Westminster could be
carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on
the matter.&nbsp; If only Mr Melmotte could be got in for
Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at
heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected
during the last forty years,&mdash;from the first reform in Parliament
down to the Ballot,&mdash;had been managed by the cunning and treachery
of a few ambitious men.&nbsp; Not, however, that the Ballot was
just now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it
was the last triumph of Radical wickedness.&nbsp; The Ballot was on
the whole popular with the party.&nbsp; A short time since, no
doubt it was regarded by the party as being one and the same as
national ruin and national disgrace.&nbsp; But it had answered well
at Porcorum, and with due manipulation had been found to be
favourable at Sticinthemud.&nbsp; The Ballot might perhaps help the
long pull and the strong pull,&mdash;and, in spite of the ruin and
disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative
measure.&nbsp; It was considered that the Ballot might assist
Melmotte at Westminster very materially.

<p>Any one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing
the Conservative speeches in the borough,&mdash;any one at least who
lived so remote as not to have learned what these things really
mean,&mdash;would have thought that England's welfare depended on
Melmotte's return.&nbsp; In the enthusiasm of the moment, the
attacks made on his character were answered by eulogy as loud as
the censure was bitter.&nbsp; The chief crime laid to his charge
was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance
company, as to which it was said that he had so managed it as to
leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his
own.&nbsp; It was declared that every shilling which he had brought
to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the
shareholders in the company.&nbsp; Now the "Evening Pulpit," in its
endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed
what it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it
was ascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been
placed at Vienna.&nbsp; Was not such a blunder as this sufficient
to show that no merchant of higher honour than Mr Melmotte had ever
adorned the Exchanges of modern capitals?&nbsp; And then two
different newspapers of the time, both of them antagonistic to
Melmotte, failed to be in accord on a material point.&nbsp; One
declared that Mr Melmotte was not in truth possessed of any
wealth.&nbsp; The other said that he had derived his wealth from
those unfortunate shareholders.&nbsp; Could anything betray so bad
a cause as contradictions such as these?&nbsp; Could anything be so
false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so
self-condemned,&mdash;in fact, so "Liberal" as a course of action such
as this?&nbsp; The belief naturally to be deduced from such
statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds&mdash;of, at
any rate, the Conservative newspapers&mdash;was that Mr Melmotte had
accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had never robbed any
shareholder of a shilling.

<p>The friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were
enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes
quite external to their party.&nbsp; The "Breakfast Table"
supported Melmotte, but the "Breakfast Table" was not a
Conservative organ.&nbsp; This support was given, not to the great
man's political opinions, as to which a well-known writer in that
paper suggested that the great man had probably not as yet given
very much attention to the party questions which divided the
country,&mdash;but to his commercial position.&nbsp; It was generally
acknowledged that few men living,&mdash;perhaps no man alive,&mdash;had so
acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as
Mr Augustus Melmotte.&nbsp; In whatever part of the world he might
have acquired his commercial experience,&mdash;for it had been said
repeatedly that Melmotte was not an Englishman,&mdash;he now made London
his home and Great Britain his country, and it would be for the
welfare of the country that such a man should sit in the British
Parliament.&nbsp; Such were the arguments used by the "Breakfast
Table" in supporting Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; This was, of course, an
assistance;&mdash;and not the less so because it was asserted in other
papers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his
presence in Parliament.&nbsp; The hotter the opposition the keener
will be the support.&nbsp; Honest good men, men who really loved
their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsullied names
from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grew hot
in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned to
Parliament as the head of the great Conservative mercantile
interests of Great Britain!

<p>There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the
present moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was
the return of Mr Melmotte for Westminster.&nbsp; This man was
undoubtedly a very ignorant man.&nbsp; He knew nothing of any one
political question which had vexed England for the last half
century,&mdash;nothing whatever of the political history which had made
England what it was at the beginning of that half century.&nbsp; Of
such names as Hampden, Somers, and Pitt he had hardly ever
heard.&nbsp; He had probably never read a book in his life.&nbsp;
He knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of
nationality,&mdash;had no preference whatever for one form of government
over another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on the
subject.&nbsp; He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or
a federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not
comprehend the meaning of those terms.&nbsp; But yet he was fully
confident that England did demand and ought to demand that Mr
Melmotte should be returned for Westminster.&nbsp; This man was Mr
Melmotte himself.

<p>In this conjunction of his affairs Mr Melmotte certainly lost
his head.&nbsp; He had audacity almost sufficient for the very
dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself
upon crisis, he became deficient in prudence.&nbsp; He did not
hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to represent
Westminster, and of those who opposed him as little malignant
beings who had mean interests of their own to serve.&nbsp; He went
about in his open carriage, with Lord Alfred at his left hand, with
a look on his face which seemed to imply that Westminster was not
good enough for him.&nbsp; He even hinted to certain political
friends that at the next general election he should try the
City.&nbsp; Six months since he had been a humble man to a
Lord,&mdash;but now he scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it
in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself
with their social pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in
which such pre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally.&nbsp;
The more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even Lord
Alfred would almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and
freedom.&nbsp; Perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a
salutary effect.&nbsp; No doubt arrogance will produce submission;
and there are men who take other men at the price those other men
put upon themselves.&nbsp; Such persons could not refrain from
thinking Melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; and gave their
hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe.&nbsp;
We all know men of this calibre,&mdash;and how they seem to grow in
number.&nbsp; But the net result of his personal demeanour was
injurious; and it was debated among some of the warmest of his
supporters whether a hint should not be given him.&nbsp; "Couldn't
Lord Alfred say a word to him?" said the Honourable Beauchamp
Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, a leading man in his party,
thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected
by blood with half the great Conservative families in the kingdom,
had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial
king, and working like a slave for his success.

<p>"Alfred's more than half afraid of him," said Lionel Lupton, a
young aristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with
the idea that the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in
Parliament, but who would have given up his Scotch shooting rather
than have undergone Melmotte's company for a day.

<p>"Something really must be done, Mr Beauclerk," said Mr Jones,
who was the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in
the borough, who had become a Conservative politician, who had
thoughts of the House for himself, but who never forgot his own
position.&nbsp; "He is making a great many personal enemies."

<p>"He's the finest old turkey cock out," said Lionel Lupton.

<p>Then it was decided that Mr Beauclerk should speak a word to
Lord Alfred.&nbsp; The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and
had always been intimate.&nbsp; "Alfred," said the chosen mentor at
the club one afternoon, "I wonder whether you couldn't say
something to Melmotte about his manner."&nbsp; Lord Alfred turned
sharp round and looked into his companion's face.&nbsp; "They tell
me he is giving offence.&nbsp; Of course he doesn't mean it.&nbsp;
Couldn't he draw it a little milder?"

<p>Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper.&nbsp; "If you
ask me, I don't think he could.&nbsp; If you got him down and
trampled on him, you might make him mild.&nbsp; I don't think
there's any other way."

<p>"You couldn't speak to him, then?"

<p>"Not unless I did it with a horsewhip."

<p>This, coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on
the man, was very strong.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had been much afflicted
that morning.&nbsp; He had spent some hours with his friend, either
going about the borough in the open carriage, or standing just
behind him at meetings, or sitting close to him in
committee-rooms,&mdash;and had been nauseated with Melmotte.&nbsp; When
spoken to about his friend he could not restrain himself.&nbsp;
Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and found the
position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost
insupportable.&nbsp; It had gone against the grain with him at
first, when he was called Alfred; but now that he was told "just to
open the door," and "just to give that message," he almost
meditated revenge.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale, who was quick at
observation, had seen something of this in Grosvenor Square, and
declared that Lord Alfred had invested part of his recent savings
in a cutting whip.&nbsp; Mr Beauclerk, when he had got his answer,
whistled and withdrew.&nbsp; But he was true to his party.&nbsp;
Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives had
taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a
god.

<p>The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be
entertained one night at the India Office.&nbsp; The Secretary of
State for the second great Asiatic Empire was to entertain the
ruler of the first.&nbsp; This was on Saturday the 6th of July, and
Melmotte's dinner was to take place on the following Monday.&nbsp;
Very great interest was made by the London world generally to
obtain admission to the India Office,&mdash;the making of such interest
consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of admission,
addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the under secretaries,
to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments, chief clerks,
and to head-messengers and their wives.&nbsp; If a petitioner could
not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the reception
rooms, might not he,&mdash;or she,&mdash;be allowed to stand in some passage
whence the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen,&mdash;so that, if
possible, the petitioner's name might be printed in the list of
guests which would be published on the next morning?&nbsp; Now Mr
Melmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with
tickets.&nbsp; He, who was to spend a fortune in giving the Emperor
a dinner, was of course entitled to be present at other places to
which the Emperor would be brought to be shown.&nbsp; Melmotte had
already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a
ball in royal halls.&nbsp; But hitherto he had not been presented
to the Emperor.&nbsp; Presentations have to be restricted,&mdash;if only
on the score of time; and it had been thought that as Mr Melmotte
would of course have some communication with the hardworked Emperor
at his own house, that would suffice.&nbsp; But he had felt himself
to be ill-used and was offended.&nbsp; He spoke with bitterness to
some of his supporters of the Royal Family generally, because he
had not been brought to the front rank either at the breakfast or
at the ball,&mdash;and now, at the India Office, was determined to have
his due.&nbsp; But he was not on the list of those whom the
Secretary of State intended on this occasion to present to the
Brother of the Sun.

<p>He had dined freely.&nbsp; At this period of his career he had
taken to dining freely,&mdash;which was in itself imprudent, as he had
need at all hours of his best intelligence.&nbsp; Let it not be
understood that he was tipsy.&nbsp; He was a man whom wine did not
often affect after that fashion.&nbsp; But it made him, who was
arrogant before, tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to
totter.&nbsp; It was probably at some moment after dinner that Lord
Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which he had
spoken.&nbsp; Melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the India
Office, and soon left them far in the background with a
request,&mdash;we may say an order,&mdash;to Lord Alfred to take care of
them.&nbsp; It may be observed here that Marie Melmotte was almost
as great a curiosity as the Emperor himself, and was much noticed
as the girl who had attempted to run away to New York, but had gone
without her lover.&nbsp; Melmotte entertained some foolish idea
that as the India Office was in Westminster, he had a peculiar
right to demand an introduction on this occasion because of his
candidature.&nbsp; He did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate
under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable young peer,
known as Earl De Griffin.&nbsp; He was a shy man, of enormous
wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who
never amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and read
everything that anybody could write, and more than any other person
could read, about India.&nbsp; Had Mr Melmotte wanted to know the
exact dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the
Punjaub, or the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would
have informed him without a pause.&nbsp; But in this matter of
managing the Emperor, the under secretary had nothing to do, and
would have been the last man to be engaged in such a service.&nbsp;
He was, however, second in command at the India Office, and of his
official rank Melmotte was unfortunately made aware.&nbsp; "My
Lord," said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, "I am
desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty."&nbsp; Lord De
Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great,&mdash;man being
one of the few men in that room who did not know him.

<p>"This is Mr Melmotte," said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the
ladies and still stuck to his master.&nbsp; "Lord De Griffin, let
me introduce you to Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Oh&mdash;oh&mdash;oh," said Lord De Griffin, just putting out his
hand.&nbsp; "I am delighted;&mdash;ah, yes," and pretending to see
somebody, he made a weak and quite ineffectual attempt to escape.

<p>Melmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity
repeated his demand.&nbsp; "I am desirous of being presented to his
Imperial Majesty.&nbsp; Will you do me the honour of making my
request known to Mr Wilson?"&nbsp; Mr Wilson was the Secretary of
State, who was as busy as a Secretary of State is sure to be on
such an occasion.

<p>"I hardly know," said Lord De Griffin.&nbsp; "I'm afraid it's
all arranged.&nbsp; I don't know anything about it myself."

<p>"You can introduce me to Mr Wilson."

<p>"He's up there, Mr Melmotte; and I couldn't get at him.&nbsp;
Really you must excuse me.&nbsp; I'm very sorry.&nbsp; If I see him
I'll tell him."&nbsp; And the poor under secretary again
endeavoured to escape.

<p>Mr Melmotte put up his hand and stopped him.&nbsp; "I'm not
going to stand this kind of thing," he said.&nbsp; The old Marquis
of Auld Reekie was close at hand, the father of Lord Nidderdale,
and therefore the proposed father-in-law of Melmotte's daughter,
and he poked his thumb heavily into Lord Alfred's ribs.&nbsp; "It
is generally understood, I believe," continued Melmotte, "that the
Emperor is to do me the honour of dining at my poor house on
Monday.&nbsp; He don't dine there unless I'm made acquainted with
him before he comes.&nbsp; I mean what I say.&nbsp; I ain't going
to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented
to him.&nbsp; Perhaps you'd better let Mr Wilson know, as a good
many people intend to come."

<p>"Here's a row," said the old Marquis.&nbsp; "I wish he'd be as
good as his word."

<p>"He has taken a little wine," whispered Lord Alfred.&nbsp;
"Melmotte," he said, still whispering; "upon my word it isn't the
thing.&nbsp; They're only Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are
presented here,&mdash;not a fellow among 'em all who hasn't been in
India or China, or isn't a Secretary of State, or something of that
kind."

<p>"Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball," said
Melmotte, pulling down his waistcoat.&nbsp; "By George,
Alfred!&nbsp; I'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to
it.&nbsp; If I'm not presented to his Imperial Majesty to-night, by
G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;, there shall be no dinner in
Grosvenor Square on Monday.&nbsp; I'm master enough of my own
house, I suppose, to be able to manage that."

<p>Here was a row, as the Marquis had said!&nbsp; Lord De Griffin
was frightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be
done.&nbsp; "There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go
in his obstinacy," Lord Alfred said to Mr Lupton, who was
there.&nbsp; It no doubt might have been wise to have allowed the
merchant prince to return home with the resolution that his dinner
should be abandoned.&nbsp; He would have repented probably before
the next morning; and had he continued obdurate it would not have
been difficult to explain to Celestial Majesty that something
preferable had been found for that particular evening even to a
banquet at the house of British commerce.&nbsp; The Government
would probably have gained the seat for Westminster, as Melmotte
would at once have become very unpopular with the great body of his
supporters.&nbsp; But Lord De Griffin was not the man to see
this.&nbsp; He did make his way up to Mr Wilson, and explained to
the Amphytrion of the night the demand which was made on his
hospitality.&nbsp; A thoroughly well-established and experienced
political Minister of State always feels that if he can make a
friend or appease an enemy without paying a heavy price he will be
doing a good stroke of business.&nbsp; "Bring him up," said Mr
Wilson.&nbsp; "He's going to do something out in the East, isn't
he?"&nbsp; "Nothing in India," said Lord De Griffin.&nbsp; "The
submarine telegraph is quite impossible."&nbsp; Mr Wilson,
instructing some satellite to find out in what way he might
properly connect Mr Melmotte with China, sent Lord De Griffin away
with his commission.

<p>"My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself;"
Mr Melmotte was saying when the under secretary returned.&nbsp; "I
know my own position and how to keep it.&nbsp; There shall be no
dinner.&nbsp; I'll be d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; if any of the
lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday."&nbsp; Lord Alfred
was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the
Prime Minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of
acquainting him with the terrible calamity which was
threatened.&nbsp; But the arrival of the under secretary saved him
the trouble.

<p>"If you will come with me," whispered Lord De Griffin, "it shall
be managed.&nbsp; It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it
shall be done."

<p>"I do wish it," said Melmotte aloud.&nbsp; He was one of those
men whom success never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained
always demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet.

<p>"If you will be so kind as to follow me," said Lord De
Griffin.&nbsp; And so the thing was done.&nbsp; Melmotte, as he was
taken up to the imperial footstool, was resolved upon making a
little speech, forgetful at the moment of interpreters,&mdash;of the
double interpreters whom the Majesty of China required; but the
awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestial one quelled even him,
and he shuffled by without saying a word even of his own banquet.

<p>But he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor
Mr Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable.&nbsp;
Lord Alfred tried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her
daughter into the carriage, but Melmotte insisted on his
presence.&nbsp; "You might as well come, Alfred;&mdash;there are two or
three things I must settle before I go to bed."

<p>"I'm about knocked up," said the unfortunate man.

<p>"Knocked up, nonsense!&nbsp; Think what I've been through.&nbsp;
I've been all day at the hardest work a man can do."&nbsp; Had he
as usual got in first, leaving his man-of-all-work to follow, the
man-of-all-work would have escaped.&nbsp; Melmotte, fearing such
defection, put his hand on Lord Alfred's shoulder, and the poor
fellow was beaten.&nbsp; As they were taken home a continual sound
of cock-crowing was audible, but as the words were not
distinguished they required no painful attention; but when the soda
water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in Mr
Longestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a
full blast.&nbsp; "I mean to let the fellows know what's what,"
said Melmotte, walking about the room.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had thrown
himself into an arm-chair, and was consoling himself as best he
might with tobacco.&nbsp; "Give and take is a very good
motto.&nbsp; If I scratch their back, I mean them to scratch
mine.&nbsp; They won't find many people to spend ten thousand
pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private
enterprise.&nbsp; I don't know of any other man of business who
could do it, or would do it.&nbsp; It's not much any of them can do
for me.&nbsp; Thank God, I don't want 'em.&nbsp; But if
consideration is to be shown to anybody, I intend to be
considered.&nbsp; The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred, and
I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday.&nbsp; I
suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests."

<p>"You might turn the election against you if you said anything
the Prince didn't like."

<p>"D&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; the election, sir.&nbsp; I stand
before the electors of Westminster as a man of business, not as a
courtier,&mdash;as a man who understands commercial enterprise, not as
one of the Prince's toadies.&nbsp; Some of you fellows in England
don't realize the matter yet; but I can tell you that I think
myself quite as great a man as any Prince."&nbsp; Lord Alfred
looked at him, with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home, and
shuddered.&nbsp; "I'll teach them a lesson before long.&nbsp;
Didn't I teach 'em a lesson to-night,&mdash;eh?&nbsp; They tell me that
Lord De Griffin has sixty thousand a-year to spend.&nbsp; What's
sixty thousand a year?&nbsp; Didn't I make him go on my
business?&nbsp; And didn't I make 'em do as I chose?&nbsp; You want
to tell me this and that, but I can tell you that I know more of
men and women than some of you fellows do, who think you know a
great deal."

<p>This went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards,
as Lord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount
Street, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of
escaping from his present servitude.&nbsp; "Beast!&nbsp;
Brute!&nbsp; Pig!" he said to himself over and over again as he
slowly went to Mount Street.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="55"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LV.&nbsp; Clerical Charities</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Melmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's
antecedents were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time.&nbsp;
He had been seen there in the flesh, and there is no believing like
that which comes from sight.&nbsp; He had been staying at
Caversham, and many in those parts knew that Miss Longestaffe was
now living in his house in London.&nbsp; The purchase of the
Pickering estate had also been noticed in all the Suffolk and
Norfolk newspapers.&nbsp; Rumours, therefore, of his past frauds,
rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as
current as those which declared him to be by far the richest man in
England.&nbsp; Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also been
communicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not
recognized as being "real Suffolk" himself, was so far connected
with Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality
respecting the Melmottes generally.&nbsp; Suffolk is very
old-fashioned.&nbsp; Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the
Melmotte fashion.&nbsp; Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and
irrecoverably Conservative, did not believe in Melmotte as a
Conservative Member of Parliament.&nbsp; Suffolk on this occasion
was rather ashamed of the Longestaffes, and took occasion to
remember that it was barely the other day, as Suffolk counts days,
since the original Longestaffe was in trade.&nbsp; This selling of
Pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmotte, was a mean
thing.&nbsp; Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmotte
had picked the very bones of every shareholder in that
Franco-Austrian Assurance Company.

<p>Mr Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were
talking about him,&mdash;or talking rather of the attempted
elopement.&nbsp; "I know nothing about it," said Roger, "and I do
not intend to ask.&nbsp; Of course I did know when they were down
here that he hoped to marry her, and I did believe that she was
willing to marry him.&nbsp; But whether the father had consented or
not I never inquired."

<p>"It seems he did not consent."

<p>"Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them
than such a marriage.&nbsp; Melmotte will probably be in the
"Gazette" before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling,
but could not keep one if he had it."

<p>"You think Melmotte will turn out a failure."

<p>"A failure!&nbsp; Of course he's a failure, whether rich or
poor;&mdash;a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning
to end,&mdash;too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not
that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age.&nbsp;
What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our
tables?"

<p>"At just a table here and there," suggested his friend.

<p>"No;&mdash;it is not that.&nbsp; You can keep your house free from
him, and so can I mine.&nbsp; But we set no example to the nation
at large.&nbsp; They who do set the example go to his feasts, and
of course he is seen at theirs in return.&nbsp; And yet these
leaders of the fashion know,&mdash;at any rate they believe,&mdash;that he is
what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other
swindlers.&nbsp; What follows as a natural consequence?&nbsp; Men
reconcile themselves to swindling.&nbsp; Though they themselves
mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to
them.&nbsp; Then there comes the jealousy that others should be
growing rich with the approval of all the world,&mdash;and the natural
aptitude to do what all the world approves.&nbsp; It seems to me
that the existence of a Melmotte is not compatible with a wholesome
state of things in general."

<p>Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same
hero was discussed under a different heading.&nbsp; "He has given
&pound;200," said the Bishop, "to the Curates' Aid Society.&nbsp; I
don't know that a man could spend his money much better than that."

<p>"Clap-trap!" said Roger, who in his present mood was very
bitter.

<p>"The money is not clap-trap, my friend.&nbsp; I presume that the
money is really paid."

<p>"I don't feel at all sure of that."

<p>"Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern
men,&mdash;very ready to make known defalcations on the part of
promising subscribers.&nbsp; I think they would take care to get
the money during the election."

<p>"And you think that money got in that way redounds to his
credit?"

<p>"Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,&mdash;and I
am always for encouraging useful men."

<p>"Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?"

<p>"There you beg ever so many questions, Mr Carbury.&nbsp; Mr
Melmotte wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on
the side which you at any rate approve.&nbsp; I do not know that
his object in that respect is pernicious.&nbsp; And as a seat in
Parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our
countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we should say that it
is vile in this man."&nbsp; Roger frowned and shook his head.&nbsp;
"Of course Mr Melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you have
been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a Conservative
constituency.&nbsp; But the country is changing."

<p>"It's going to the dogs, I think;&mdash;about as fast as it can go."

<p>"We build churches much faster than we used to do."

<p>"Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?" asked
the Squire.

<p>"It is very hard to see into the minds of men," said the Bishop;
"but we can see the results of their minds' work.&nbsp; I think
that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred
years ago.&nbsp; There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of
mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of
religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition.&nbsp; Men will
hardly go to heaven, Mr Carbury, by following forms only because
their fathers followed the same forms before them."

<p>"I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they
would be done by."

<p>"There can be no safer lesson.&nbsp; But we must hope that some
may be saved even if they have not practised at all times that
grand self-denial.&nbsp; Who comes up to that teaching?&nbsp; Do
you not wish for, nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any
trespass that you may commit,&mdash;of temper, or manner, for
instance?&nbsp; and are you always ready to forgive in that way
yourself?&nbsp; Do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly
judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or
the causes of them; and do you never judge others after that
fashion?"

<p>"I do not put myself forward as an example."

<p>"I apologise for the personal form of my appeal.&nbsp; A
clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit.&nbsp; Of
course I speak of men in general.&nbsp; Taking society as a whole,
the big and the little, the rich and the poor, I think that it
grows better from year to year, and not worse.&nbsp; I think, too,
that they who grumble at the times, as Horace did, and declare that
each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small
things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the world at
large."

<p>"But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when
Horace wrote."

<p>"But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being
made fit by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching.&nbsp; And as
for freedom, has not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to
this?"

<p>"In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this
Melmotte.&nbsp; Do you remember the man who sat upon the seats of
the knights and scoured the Via Sacra with his toga, though he had
been scourged from pillar to post for his villainies?&nbsp; I
always think of that man when I hear Melmotte's name
mentioned.&nbsp; Hoc, hoc tribuno militum!&nbsp; Is this the man to
be Conservative member for Westminster?"

<p><p>"Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?"

<p>"I think I know that they are deserved."

<p>"That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by.&nbsp;
If the man is what you say, he will surely be found out at last,
and the day of his punishment will come.&nbsp; Your friend in the
ode probably had a bad time of it, in spite of his farms and his
horses.&nbsp; The world perhaps is managed more justly than you
think, Mr Carbury."

<p>"My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart," said Roger, as
he took his leave.

<p>"Very likely,&mdash;very likely.&nbsp; Only don't say so to the Prime
Minister, or I shall never get any of the better things which may
be going."

<p>The Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was
therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in
general than Roger Carbury.&nbsp; To Roger everything seemed to be
out of joint.&nbsp; He had that morning received a letter from Lady
Carbury, reminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come
to her of great need.&nbsp; It had come very quickly.&nbsp; Roger
Carbury did not in the least begrudge the hundred pounds which he
had already sent to his cousin; but he did begrudge any furtherance
afforded to the iniquitous schemes of Sir Felix.&nbsp; He felt all
but sure that the foolish mother had given her son money for his
abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal had been made to
him.&nbsp; He alluded to no such fear in his letter.&nbsp; He
simply enclosed the cheque, and expressed a hope that the amount
might suffice for the present emergency.&nbsp; But he was
disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the Carbury
family.&nbsp; There was Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as Mrs
Hurtle down to Lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing his
visits to her, and, as Roger thought, utterly unable to free
himself from his toils,&mdash;and yet, on this man's account, Hetta was
cold and hard to him.&nbsp; He was conscious of the honesty of his
own love, sure that he could make her happy,&mdash;confident, not in
himself, but in the fashion and ways of his own life.&nbsp; What
would be Hetta's lot if her heart was really given to Paul
Montague?

<p>When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his
library.&nbsp; An accident had lately happened at Father Barham's
own establishment.&nbsp; The wind had blown the roof off his
cottage; and Roger Carbury, though his affection for the priest was
waning, had offered him shelter while the damage was being
repaired.&nbsp; Shelter at Carbury Manor was very much more
comfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roof
on, and Father Barham was in clover.&nbsp; Father Barham was
reading his own favourite newspaper, "The Surplice," when Roger
entered the room.&nbsp; "Have you seen this, Mr Carbury?" he said.

<p>"What's this?&nbsp; I am not likely to have seen anything that
belongs peculiarly to 'The Surplice.'"

<p>"That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the
Anglican Church.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte is a convert to our faith.&nbsp;
He is a great man, and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on
the face of the globe."

<p>"Melmotte a convert to Romanism!&nbsp; I'll make you a present
of him, and thank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've
any such good riddance."

<p>Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of "The Surplice."&nbsp;
"Mr Augustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has
presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for
the new church of St Fabricius, in Tothill Fields.&nbsp; The
donation was accompanied by a letter from Mr Melmotte's secretary,
which leaves but little doubt that the new member for Westminster
will be a member, and no inconsiderable member, of the Catholic
party in the House, during the next session."

<p>"That's another dodge, is it?" said Carbury.

<p>"What do you mean by a dodge, Mr Carbury?&nbsp; Because money is
given for a pious object of which you do not happen to approve,
must it be a dodge?"

<p>"But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man
gave &pound;200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society.&nbsp; I
have just left the Bishop exulting in this great act of charity."

<p>"I don't believe a word of it;&mdash;or it may be a parting gift to
the Church to which he belonged in his darkness."

<p>"And you would be really proud of Mr Melmotte as a convert?"

<p>"I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul,"
said the priest; "but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy
and the great."

<p>"The great!&nbsp; Oh dear!"

<p>"A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that
of Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; And when such a one leaves your Church and
joins our own, it is a great sign to us that the Truth is
prevailing."&nbsp; Roger Carbury, without another word, took his
candle and went to bed.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="56"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LVI.&nbsp; Father Barham Visits London</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman
Catholic vote in Westminster.&nbsp; For many years it has been
considered a great thing both in the House and out of the House to
"catch" Roman Catholic votes.&nbsp; There are two modes of catching
these votes.&nbsp; This or that individual Roman Catholic may be
promoted to place, so that he personally may be made secure; or the
right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the Pope
generally, so that the people of the Pope may be taught to think
that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the
nation.&nbsp; The first measure is the easier, but the effect is
but slight and soon passes away.&nbsp; The promoted one, though as
far as his prayers go he may remain as good a Catholic as ever,
soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated, and is apt
after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy.&nbsp; But the
other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious.&nbsp;
It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in Ireland
and England has been brought to believe that the nation is coming
round to them;&mdash;and in this or that borough the same conviction has
been made to grow.&nbsp; To catch the Protestant,&mdash;that is the
peculiarly Protestant,&mdash;vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the
same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been
attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr Melmotte and his
friends.&nbsp; It was perhaps thought by his friends that the
Protestants would not notice the &pound;100 given for the altar to
St Fabricius; but Mr Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr
Melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the
world at large.&nbsp; During all that period of newspaper
excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much
general interest as that which appeared in the "Evening Pulpit,"
with a special question asked at the head of it, "For Priest or
Parson?"&nbsp; In this article, which was more than usually
delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as
being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr Alf's man, who did
that business, declared that it was really important that the
nation at large and especially the electors of Westminster should
know what was the nature of Mr Melmotte's faith.&nbsp; That he was
a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his
munificent charities on behalf of religion.&nbsp; Two noble
donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were
doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary
flow of Christian benevolence.&nbsp; The "Evening Pulpit" by no
means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference
to the approaching election.&nbsp; Far be it from the "Evening
Pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as Mr Melmotte looked for
any return in this world from his charitable generosity.&nbsp; But
still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented in
Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as
naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr
Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.

<p>This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr Melmotte and
his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in
any way.&nbsp; He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting
St Fabricius with one hand and the Protestant curates with the
other, and must leave the results to take care of themselves.&nbsp;
If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant,
and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the
better for him.&nbsp; Any enthusiastic religionists wishing to
enjoy such convictions would not allow themselves to be enlightened
by the manifestly interested malignity of Mr Alf's newspaper.

<p>It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid
Society did have much effect.&nbsp; It may perhaps have induced a
resolution in some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in
regard to religion and torpid as to politics.&nbsp; But the
donation to St Fabricius certainly had results.&nbsp; It was taken
up and made much of by the Roman Catholic party generally, till a
report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that Mr
Melmotte was going to join the Church of Rome.&nbsp; These
manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow
instead of good.&nbsp; On the second afternoon after the question
had been asked in the "Evening Pulpit," an answer to it appeared,
"For Priest and not for Parson."&nbsp; Therein various assertions
made by Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic
speeches were brought together, so as to show that Mr Melmotte
really had at last made up his mind on this important
question.&nbsp; All the world knew now, said Mr Alf's writer, that
with that keen sense of honesty which was the Great Financier's
peculiar characteristic,&mdash;the Great Financier was the name which Mr
Alf had specially invented for Mr Melmotte,&mdash;he had doubted, till
the truth was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve
the nation best as a Liberal or as a Conservative.&nbsp; He had
solved that doubt with wisdom.&nbsp; And now this other doubt had
passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a golden
certainty had been produced.&nbsp; The world of Westminster at last
knew that Mr Melmotte was a Roman Catholic.&nbsp; Now nothing was
clearer than this,&mdash;that though catching the Catholic vote would
greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be
returned.&nbsp; This last article vexed Mr Melmotte, and he
proposed to his friends to send a letter to the "Breakfast Table"
asserting that he adhered to the Protestant faith of his
ancestors.&nbsp; But, as it was suspected by many, and was now
being whispered to the world at large, that Melmotte had been born
a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong.&nbsp; "Do
nothing of the kind," said Mr Beauchamp Beauclerk.&nbsp; "If any
one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a
Protestant.&nbsp; But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own
people.&nbsp; Don't go writing letters."

<p>But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St Fabricius was such
a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to
cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well.&nbsp; I
think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a
beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome.&nbsp; The
fervent Romanists have always this point in their favour, that they
are ready to believe.&nbsp; And they have a desire for the
conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to
the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it.&nbsp;
Father Barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself
in the good cause,&mdash;his time, his health, his money when he had
any, and his life.&nbsp; Much as he liked the comfort of Carbury
Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its
continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion.&nbsp; Roger
Carbury was hard of heart.&nbsp; He could see that.&nbsp; But the
dropping of water might hollow the stone.&nbsp; If the dropping
should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone
had been impressed that would not be his fault.&nbsp; He at any
rate would do his duty.&nbsp; In that fixed resolution Father
Barham was admirable.&nbsp; But he had no scruple whatsoever as to
the nature of the arguments he would use,&mdash;or as to the facts which
he would proclaim.&nbsp; With the mingled ignorance of his life and
the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that
Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great
instrument on behalf of the Pope.&nbsp; He believed in the enormous
proportions of the man's wealth,&mdash;believed that he was powerful in
all quarters of the globe,&mdash;and believed, because he was so told by
"The Surplice," that the man was at heart a Catholic.&nbsp; That a
man should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing
the Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable
or distressing.&nbsp; Kings who had done so were to him objects of
veneration.&nbsp; By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had
they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire.&nbsp;
There was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which
recommended itself to the young priest's mind.&nbsp; But it was
clear to him that this was a peculiar time,&mdash;in which it behoved an
earnest man to be doing something.&nbsp; He had for some weeks been
preparing himself for a trip to London in order that he might spend
a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook
themselves to the cells of St Fabricius.&nbsp; And so, just at this
season of the Westminster election, Father Barham made a journey to
London.

<p>He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr
Melmotte himself.&nbsp; He thought that he might be convinced by a
word or two as to the man's faith.&nbsp; And he thought, also, that
it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse
with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring
the true faith to his country.&nbsp; On Saturday night,&mdash;that
Saturday night on which Mr Melmotte had so successfully exercised
his greatness at the India Office,&mdash;he took up his quarters in the
cloisters of St Fabricius; he spent a goodly festive Sunday among
the various Romanist church services of the metropolis; and on the
Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of Mr Melmotte.&nbsp;
Having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to
Abchurch Lane.&nbsp; But on this day, and on the next, which would
be the day of the election, Mr Melmotte was not expected in the
City, and the priest was referred to his present private residence
in Bruton Street.&nbsp; There he was told that the great man might
probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the
square Father Barham was at last successful.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte was
there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the
Emperor.

<p>The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at
fault in giving the priest admittance.&nbsp; But in truth the house
was in great confusion.&nbsp; The wreaths of flowers and green
boughs were being suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being
given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being
burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and
chairs were being moved; and an enormous set of open presses were
being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and
cloaks.&nbsp; The hall was chaos, and poor Father Barham, who had
heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word of
the intended entertainment of the Emperor, was at a loss to
conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on.&nbsp;
But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in
the presence of Mr Melmotte in the banqueting hall.

<p>Mr Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son.&nbsp;
He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for
the Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very
angry indeed.&nbsp; He had been given to understand when the dinner
was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august
guest;&mdash;by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat
immediately in face of the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of
the Sun, of the Celestial One himself.&nbsp; It was now explained
to him that this could not be done.&nbsp; In face of the Emperor
there must be a wide space, so that his Majesty might be able to
look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the
Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must
also be so indulged.&nbsp; And in this way Mr Melmotte's own seat
became really quite obscure.&nbsp; Lord Alfred was having a very
bad time of it.&nbsp; "It's that fellow from 'The Herald' office
did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion.&nbsp; "I don't know
how people ought to sit.&nbsp; But that's the reason."

<p>"I'm d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; if I'm going to be treated in
this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest
heard.&nbsp; And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close
to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the Grendalls, Mr
Melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat
nearer to Imperial Majesty.&nbsp; A bar had been put up of such a
nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would
absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall.&nbsp;
"Who the d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; are you?" he asked, when the
priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial
side of the bar.&nbsp; It was not the habit of Father Barham's life
to appear in sleek apparel.&nbsp; He was ever clothed in the very
rustiest brown black that age can produce.&nbsp; In Beccles where
he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one
in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the
measure of his outer man.&nbsp; A comely priest in glossy black
might have been received with better grace.

<p>Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off.&nbsp; He was a man
of infinite pluck; but outward humility&mdash;at any rate at the
commencement of an enterprise,&mdash;was the rule of his life.&nbsp; "I
am the Rev. Mr Barham," said the visitor.&nbsp; "I am the priest of
Beccles in Suffolk.&nbsp; I believe I am speaking to Mr Melmotte."

<p>"That's my name, sir.&nbsp; And what may you want?&nbsp; I don't
know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my
private dining-room without any introduction.&nbsp; Where the
mischief are the fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about
this?&nbsp; I wish you'd look to it, Miles.&nbsp; Can anybody who
pleases walk into my hall?"

<p>"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,"
said the priest.&nbsp; Although he was bold, he found it difficult
to explain his mission.&nbsp; Had not Lord Alfred been there he
could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of
the great man himself.

<p>"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.

<p>"Certainly it is business," said Father Barham with a smile.

<p>"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,&mdash;in
the City," said his lordship.

<p>"My business is not of that nature.&nbsp; I am a poor servant of
the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr Melmotte
himself that his heart is inclined to the true Faith."

<p>"Some lunatic," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "See that there ain't any
knives about, Alfred."

<p>"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad
who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others."

<p>"Just get a policeman, Alfred.&nbsp; Or send somebody; you'd
better not go away."

<p>"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr Melmotte," continued the
priest.&nbsp; "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes&mdash;"

<p>"Certainly not;&mdash;certainly not.&nbsp; I am very busy, and if you
will not go away you'll have to be taken away.&nbsp; I wonder
whether anybody knows him."

<p>"Mr Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."

<p>"Carbury!&nbsp; D&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; the
Carburys!&nbsp; Did any of the Carburys send you here?&nbsp; A set
of beggars!&nbsp; Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of
him?"

<p>"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred.&nbsp; "Don't make a rumpus,
there's a good fellow;&mdash;but just go."

<p>"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing
wrathful.&nbsp; "I asked for you at the door, and was told to come
in by your own servants.&nbsp; Have I been uncivil that you should
treat me in this fashion?"

<p>"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.

<p>"It's a piece of gross impertinence," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "Go
away."

<p>"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you
as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm;
or as one still in error and in darkness?"

<p>"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.

<p>"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.

<p>"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed
Melmotte;&mdash;whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave.

<p>"That's a remarkable thing," said Melmotte,&mdash;"very
remarkable."&nbsp; Even this poor priest's mad visit added to his
inflation.&nbsp; "I suppose he was in earnest."

<p>"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.

<p>"But why did he come to me in his madness&mdash;to me
especially?&nbsp; That's what I want to know.&nbsp; I'll tell you
what it is.&nbsp; There isn't a man in all England at this moment
thought of so much as&mdash;your humble servant.&nbsp; I wonder whether
the "Morning Pulpit" people sent him here now to find out really
what is my religion."

<p>"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again;&mdash;"just that and no
more."

<p>"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very
far.&nbsp; The truth is they don't know what to make of me;&mdash;and I
don't intend that they shall.&nbsp; I'm playing my game, and there
isn't one of 'em understands it except myself.&nbsp; It's no good
my sitting here, you know.&nbsp; I shan't be able to move.&nbsp;
How am I to get at you if I want anything?"

<p>"What can you want?&nbsp; There'll be lots of servants about."

<p>"I'll have this bar down, at any rate."&nbsp; And he did succeed
in having removed the bar which had been specially put up to
prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house.&nbsp; "I
look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the
times," he went on to say.&nbsp; "They'll want before long to know
where I have my clothes made, and who measures me for my
boots!"&nbsp; Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in the
career of this remarkable man was the fact that he came almost to
believe in himself.

<p>Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not
altogether disheartened.&nbsp; The man had not declared that he was
not a Roman Catholic.&nbsp; He had shown himself to be a
brute.&nbsp; He had blasphemed and cursed.&nbsp; He had been
outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have known to be a
minister of God.&nbsp; He had manifested himself to this priest,
who had been born an English gentleman, as being no
gentleman.&nbsp; But, not the less might he be a good Catholic,&mdash;or
good enough at any rate to be influential on the right side.&nbsp;
To his eyes Melmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was
infinitely a more hopeful man than Roger Carbury.&nbsp; "He
insulted me," said Father Barham to a brother religionist that
evening within the cloisters of St Fabricius.

<p>"Did he intend to insult you?"

<p>"Certainly he did.&nbsp; But what of that?&nbsp; It is not by
the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this
work has to be done.&nbsp; He was preparing for some great
festival, and his mind was intent upon that."

<p>"He entertains the Emperor of China this very day," said the
brother priest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to
time what was being done.

<p>"The Emperor of China!&nbsp; Ah, that accounts for it.&nbsp; I
do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little
encouragement for saying so.&nbsp; Will they vote for him, here at
Westminster?"

<p>"Our people will.&nbsp; They think that he is rich and can help
them."

<p>"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father
Barham.

<p>"Some people do doubt;&mdash;but others say he is the richest man in
the world."

<p>"He looked like it,&mdash;and spoke like it," said Father
Barham.&nbsp; "Think what such a man might do, if he be really the
wealthiest man in the world!&nbsp; And if he had been against us
would he not have said so?&nbsp; Though he was uncivil, I am glad
that I saw him."&nbsp; Father Barham, with a simplicity that was
singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself believe
before he returned to Beccles that Mr Melmotte was certainly a
Roman Catholic.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="57"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LVII.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale Tries His Hand Again</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie
Melmotte.&nbsp; He had at any rate half promised to call at
Melmotte's house on the Sunday with the object of so doing.&nbsp;
As far as that promise had been given it was broken, for on the
Sunday he was not seen in Bruton Street.&nbsp; Though not much
given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there
was need for thought.&nbsp; His father's property was not very
large.&nbsp; His father and his grandfather had both been
extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding
to the family embarrassments.&nbsp; It had been an understood
thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry an
heiress.&nbsp; In such families as his, when such results have been
achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put
right by an heiress.&nbsp; It has become an institution, like
primogeniture, and is almost as serviceable for maintaining the
proper order of things.&nbsp; Rank squanders money; trade makes
it;&mdash;and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding its
splendour.&nbsp; The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy
generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old
marquis&mdash;so that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up
the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a
matter of course.&nbsp; Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had
entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never
alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with
any undowered beauty;&mdash;but had claimed his right to "have his
fling" before he devoted himself to the reintegration of the
family property.&nbsp; His father had felt that it would be wrong
and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire.&nbsp;
He had regarded all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent
eyes.&nbsp; But there arose some little difference as to the
duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself
compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much
longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his
heir.&nbsp; Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw
the thing quite in the proper light.&nbsp; He assured his father
that he had no intention of "cutting up rough," declared that he
was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in
his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on
him.&nbsp; This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during
the last winter, and the reader knows the result.

<p>But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties.&nbsp; Perhaps
the Marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to
be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed.&nbsp; A
couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with
greater ease.&nbsp; But here there had been a prospect of endless
money,&mdash;of an inheritance which might not improbably make the Auld
Reekie family conspicuous for its wealth even among the most
wealthy of the nobility.&nbsp; The old man had fallen into the
temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result.&nbsp;
Some of these the reader knows.&nbsp; Latterly two difficulties had
culminated above the others.&nbsp; The young lady preferred another
gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the
way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very
existence.

<p>The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten.&nbsp; As
far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there or, at
least, so much money as had been promised.&nbsp; A considerable
sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute
shipwreck,&mdash;though by no means enough to make a brilliant
marriage,&mdash;had in truth been already settled on Marie, and was,
indeed, in her possession.&nbsp; As to that, her father had armed
himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,&mdash;but had
made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of
unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure
comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with
whitewashed cleanliness.&nbsp; When doing this, he had doubtless
not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the
fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this
little harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his
vessel.&nbsp; Marie had been quite correct in her story to her
favoured lover.&nbsp; And the Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that
if Marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to
her father, her husband would be so far safe,&mdash;with this as a
certainty and the immense remainder in prospect.&nbsp; The Marquis
had determined to persevere.&nbsp; Pickering was to be added.&nbsp;
Mr Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had
promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have
been fixed with the consent of all the parties.&nbsp; The Marquis's
lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had
determined to persevere.&nbsp; The reader will, I trust, remember
that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own
mind, have been borne in upon him by information which had not as
yet reached the Marquis in all its details.

<p>But Nidderdale had his doubts.&nbsp; That absurd elopement,
which Melmotte declared really to mean nothing,&mdash;the romance of a
girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she
settled down for life,&mdash;was perhaps his strongest objection.&nbsp;
Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone with her; but then one doesn't
wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with any
one but oneself.&nbsp; "She'll be sick of him by this time, I
should say," his father said to him.&nbsp; "What does it matter, if
the money's there?"&nbsp; The Marquis seemed to think that the
escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for
having made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead
of devoting himself to her.&nbsp; Nidderdale acknowledged to
himself that he had been remiss.&nbsp; He told himself that she was
possessed of more spirit than he had thought.&nbsp; By the Sunday
evening he had determined that he would try again.&nbsp; He had
expected that the plum would fall into his mouth.&nbsp; He would
now stretch out his hand to pick it.

<p>On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch
time.&nbsp; Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from
their work in the square, and the financier was full of the
priest's visit to him.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss
Longestaffe, who was to be sent for by her friend Lady Monogram
that afternoon,&mdash;and, after they had sat down, Marie came in.&nbsp;
Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,&mdash;of course as though
nothing had happened.&nbsp; Marie, putting a brave face upon it,
struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded
in saying an ordinary word or two.&nbsp; Her position was
uncomfortable.&nbsp; A girl who has run away with her lover and has
been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it
difficult to appear in society with ease.&nbsp; But when a girl has
run away without her lover,&mdash;has run away expecting her lover to go
with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having
stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing.&nbsp; But
Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat
next to Lord Nidderdale.

<p>Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord.&nbsp; "Did you
ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the
priest's visit.

<p>"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.

<p>"I don't know much about his madness.&nbsp; I shouldn't wonder
if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster.&nbsp; Why
don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got
one?&nbsp; I shall have to see to that when I'm in the House.&nbsp;
I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred?"&nbsp; Alfred
shook his head.&nbsp; "There's a Dean, I know, for I called on
him.&nbsp; He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me.&nbsp; I thought
all those parsons were Conservatives.&nbsp; It didn't occur to me
that the fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been
more civil to him."

<p>"Mad as a hatter;&mdash;nothing else," said Lord Alfred.

<p>"You should have seen him, Nidderdale.&nbsp; It would have been
as good as a play to you."

<p>"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."

<p>"D&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; the dinner, I'm sick of it," said
Melmotte, frowning.&nbsp; "We must go back again, Alfred.&nbsp;
Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked
after.&nbsp; Come, Miles.&nbsp; Ladies, I shall expect you to be
ready at exactly a quarter before eight.&nbsp; His Imperial Majesty
is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive
him.&nbsp; You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the
drawing-room."&nbsp; The ladies went upstairs, and Lord Nidderdale
followed them.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe took her departure, alleging
that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady Monogram waiting for
her.&nbsp; Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving
the young people together, a duty which she found a great
difficulty in performing.&nbsp; After all that had happened, she
did not know how to get up and go out of the room.&nbsp; As
regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were
becoming almost too much for her.&nbsp; She had no pleasure from
her grandeur,&mdash;and probably no belief in her husband's
achievements.&nbsp; It was her present duty to assist in getting
Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by
going away.&nbsp; But she did not know how to get out of her
chair.&nbsp; She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the
Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed
during the whole evening.&nbsp; She liked Nidderdale better than
any one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for
Sir Felix.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so
easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say
anything.&nbsp; She sighed and shook her head, and wished again
that she might be allowed to go to bed.&nbsp; Marie, who was by
degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and
emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China
would be good fun.&nbsp; Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her
courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the door.&nbsp;
"Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising.&nbsp; Madame
Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that
she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache.&nbsp; "I must
see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the
door.&nbsp; But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood
with his back to it.&nbsp; "That's a shame," said Marie.

<p>"Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said
his lordship.&nbsp; "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"

<p>Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself.&nbsp; She
also had thought much of her own position since her return from
Liverpool.&nbsp; Why had Sir Felix not been there?&nbsp; Why had he
not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see
her?&nbsp; Why had he made no attempt to write to her?&nbsp; Had it
been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of
getting at him.&nbsp; She absolutely had walked inside the garden
of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a gate
open on each side.&nbsp; But he had made no sign.&nbsp; Her father
had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool&mdash;and had assured her
that he had never intended to go.&nbsp; Melmotte had been very
savage with her about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix
of stealing it.&nbsp; The repayment he never mentioned,&mdash;a piece of
honesty, indeed, which had showed no virtue on the part of Sir
Felix.&nbsp; But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man
enough to come and say so?&nbsp; Marie could have forgiven that
fault,&mdash;could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness
which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side, if he
had had the courage to come and confess to her.&nbsp; What she
could not forgive was continued indifference,&mdash;or the cowardice
which forbade him to show himself.&nbsp; She had more than once
almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than
Nidderdale.&nbsp; But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to
consent that the thing should be considered as over between
them.&nbsp; No doubt she could write to him.&nbsp; She had more
than once almost determined to do so.&nbsp; But then she had
reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her.&nbsp;
She was quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved
her; but she would not fling herself at a man's head.&nbsp;
Therefore she had done nothing beyond leaving the garden gates open
on the Sunday morning.

<p>But what was she to do with herself?&nbsp; She also felt, she
knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might
be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion.&nbsp; No girl
could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her
home.&nbsp; If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she
do?&nbsp; She had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors
would come,&mdash;would come as long as that convulsion was staved
off.&nbsp; She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would
frighten all the men away.&nbsp; But she had thought that it would
put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had
commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord
Nidderdale when he should come on Sunday, she had replied by
expressing her assurance that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen
at that house any more.&nbsp; On the Sunday he had not come; but
here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door,
and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing
his suit.&nbsp; She was determined at any rate that she would speak
up.&nbsp; "I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord
Nidderdale."

<p>"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"

<p>"Because&mdash;.&nbsp; Oh, you know why.&nbsp; Besides, I've told you
ever so often, my lord.&nbsp; I thought a gentleman would never go
on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody
else better."

<p>"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."

<p>"Well; that is impudent!&nbsp; You may believe it then.&nbsp; I
think I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate."

<p>"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."

<p>"That's all you know about it, my lord.&nbsp; Why shouldn't I be
fond of him?&nbsp; Accidents will happen, you know."

<p>"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's
unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."

<p>"You may say just what you please.&nbsp; All the world knows
about it.&nbsp; Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa
had me brought back again."

<p>"Why did not Sir Felix go?"

<p>"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of
yours."

<p>"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why.&nbsp; You might
as well let me say what I've got to say,&mdash;out at once."

<p>"You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference."

<p>"You knew me before you knew him, you know."

<p>"What does that matter?&nbsp; If it comes to that, I knew ever
so many people before I knew you."

<p>"And you were engaged to me."

<p>"You broke it off."

<p>"Listen to me for a moment or two.&nbsp; I know I did.&nbsp; Or,
rather, your father and my father broke it off for us."

<p>"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it
off.&nbsp; Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt
that he really loved me;&mdash;not if they were to cut me in
pieces.&nbsp; But you didn't care, not a bit.&nbsp; You did it just
because your father told you.&nbsp; And so did I.&nbsp; But I know
better than that now.&nbsp; You never cared for me a bit more than
for the old woman at the crossing.&nbsp; You thought I didn't
understand;&mdash;but I did.&nbsp; And now you've come again because
your father has told you again.&nbsp; And you'd better go away."

<p>"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."

<p>"It's all true, my lord.&nbsp; Every word of it."

<p>"I wish you wouldn't call me my lord."

<p>"I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you
so.&nbsp; I never called you anything else when they pretended that
we were to be married, and you never asked me.&nbsp; I never even
knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I
had consented."

<p>"There is truth in what you say;&mdash;but it isn't true now.&nbsp;
How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you?&nbsp; I do
love you now."

<p>"Then you needn't;&mdash;for it isn't any good."

<p>"I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be
truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go
down to Liverpool with you."

<p>"You don't know why he didn't go."

<p>"Well;&mdash;perhaps I do.&nbsp; But I did not come here to say
anything about that."

<p>"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?"&nbsp; She asked the
question with an altered tone and an altered face.&nbsp; "If you
really know, you might as well tell me."

<p>"No, Marie;&mdash;that's just what I ought not to do.&nbsp; But he
ought to tell you.&nbsp; Do you really in your heart believe that
he means to come back to you?"

<p>"I don't know," she said, sobbing.&nbsp; "I do love him;&mdash;I do
indeed.&nbsp; I know that you are good-natured.&nbsp; You are more
good-natured than he is.&nbsp; But he did like me.&nbsp; You never
did;&mdash;no; not a bit.&nbsp; It isn't true.&nbsp; I ain't a
fool.&nbsp; I know.&nbsp; No;&mdash;go away.&nbsp; I won't let you
now.&nbsp; I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him.&nbsp; Go
away, Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; You oughtn't to go on like that
because papa and mamma let you come here.&nbsp; I didn't let you
come.&nbsp; I don't want you to come.&nbsp; No;&mdash;I won't say any
kind word to you.&nbsp; I love Sir Felix Carbury better&mdash;than any
person&mdash;in all the world.&nbsp; There!&nbsp; I don't know whether
you call that kind, but it's true."

<p>"Say good-bye to me, Marie."

<p>"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye.&nbsp; Good-bye, my lord; and
don't come any more."

<p>"Yes, I shall.&nbsp; Good-bye, Marie.&nbsp; You'll find the
difference between me and him yet."&nbsp; So he took his leave, and
as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had
prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had
laboured in carrying on his suit.&nbsp; "She's quite a different
sort of girl from what I took her to be," he said to himself "Upon
my word, she's awfully jolly."

<p>Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost
in dismay.&nbsp; It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix
Carbury was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought
him.&nbsp; Of his beauty there was no doubt; but then she could
trust him for no other good quality.&nbsp; Why did he not come to
her?&nbsp; Why did he not show some pluck?&nbsp; Why did he not
tell her the truth?&nbsp; She had quite believed Lord Nidderdale
when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix from
going to Liverpool.&nbsp; And she had believed him, too, when he
said that it was not his business to tell her.&nbsp; But the
reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to
her love.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all
beautiful.&nbsp; He had a commonplace, rough face, with a turn-up
nose, high cheek bones, no especial complexion, sandy-coloured
whiskers, and bright laughing eyes,&mdash;not at all an Adonis such as
her imagination had painted.&nbsp; But if he had only made love at
first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would
have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="58"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LVIII.&nbsp; Mr Squercum Is Employed</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>While these things were being done in Bruton Street and
Grosvenor Square horrid rumours were prevailing in the City and
spreading from the City westwards to the House of Commons, which
was sitting this Monday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment
at seven o'clock in consequence of the banquet to be given to the
Emperor.&nbsp; It is difficult to explain the exact nature of this
rumour, as it was not thoroughly understood by those who propagated
it.&nbsp; But it is certainly the case that the word forgery was
whispered by more than one pair of lips.

<p>Many of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was
very wrong not to show himself that day in the City.&nbsp; What
good could he do pottering about among the chairs and benches in
the banqueting room?&nbsp; There were people to manage that kind of
thing.&nbsp; In such an affair it was his business to do simply as
he was told, and to pay the bill.&nbsp; It was not as though he
were giving a little dinner to a friend, and had to see himself
that the wine was brought up in good order.&nbsp; His work was in
the City; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis as this,
he should have been in the City.&nbsp; Men will whisper forgery
behind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his
face.

<p>Of this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was
the parent.&nbsp; With unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his
father, Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr Squercum, immediately
after that Friday on which Mr Longestaffe first took his seat at
the Railway Board.&nbsp; Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but
it must be owned that veneration was not one of them.&nbsp; "I
don't know why Mr Melmotte is to be different from anybody else,"
he had said to his father.&nbsp; "When I buy a thing and don't pay
for it, it is because I haven't got the tin, and I suppose it's
about the same with him.&nbsp; It's all right, no doubt, but I
don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money
was paid down."

<p>"Of course it's all right," said the father.&nbsp; "You think
you understand everything, when you really understand nothing at
all."

<p>"Of course I'm slow," said Dolly.&nbsp; "I don't comprehend
these things.&nbsp; But then Squercum does.&nbsp; When a fellow is
stupid himself, he ought to have a sharp fellow to look after his
business."

<p>"You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as
that.&nbsp; Why can't you trust Mr Bideawhile?&nbsp; Slow and
Bideawhile have been the family lawyers for a century."&nbsp; Dolly
made some remark as to the old family advisers which was by no
means pleasing to the father's ears, and went his way.&nbsp; The
father knew his boy, and knew that his boy would go to
Squercum.&nbsp; All he could himself do was to press Mr Melmotte
for the money with what importunity he could assume.&nbsp; He wrote
a timid letter to Mr Melmotte, which had no result; and then, on
the next Friday, again went into the City and there encountered
perturbation of spirit and sheer loss of time,&mdash;as the reader has
already learned.

<p>Squercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles.&nbsp;
Mr Slow had been gathered to his fathers, but of the Bideawhiles
there were three in the business, a father and two sons, to whom
Squercum was a pest and a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton
in the cupboard.&nbsp; It was not only in reference to Mr
Longestaffe's affairs that they knew Squercum.&nbsp; The
Bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous and orderly
transaction of their business.&nbsp; It had grown to be a rule in
the house that anything done quickly must be done badly.&nbsp; They
never were in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients
never to be in a hurry for work.&nbsp; Squercum was the very
opposite to this.&nbsp; He had established himself, without
predecessors and without a partner, and we may add without capital,
at a little office in Fetter Lane, and had there made a character
for getting things done after a marvellous and new fashion.&nbsp;
And it was said of him that he was fairly honest, though it must be
owned that among the Bideawhiles of the profession this was not the
character which he bore.&nbsp; He did sharp things no doubt, and
had no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those
of their fathers.&nbsp; In more than one case he had computed for a
young heir the exact value of his share in a property as compared
to that of his father, and had come into hostile contact with many
family Bideawhiles.&nbsp; He had been closely watched.&nbsp; There
were some who, no doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at
once so clever, and so pestilential.&nbsp; But he had not as yet
been crushed, and had become quite in vogue with elder sons.&nbsp;
Some three years since his name had been mentioned to Dolly by a
friend who had for years been at war with his father, and Squercum
had been quite a comfort to Dolly.

<p>He was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who
always wore a stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress
coat, a coloured dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue
different from his waistcoat.&nbsp; He generally had on dirty shoes
and gaiters.&nbsp; He was light-haired, with light whiskers, with
putty-formed features, a squat nose, a large mouth, and very bright
blue eyes.&nbsp; He looked as unlike the normal Bideawhile of the
profession as a man could be; and it must be owned, though an
attorney, would hardly have been taken for a gentleman from his
personal appearance.&nbsp; He was very quick, and active in his
motions, absolutely doing his law work himself, and trusting to his
three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener's
labour.&nbsp; He seldom or never came to his office on a Saturday,
and many among his enemies said that he was a Jew.&nbsp; What evil
will not a rival say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the
hated one?&nbsp; But this report Squercum rather liked, and
assisted.&nbsp; They who knew the inner life of the little man
declared that he kept a horse and hunted down in Essex on Saturday,
doing a bit of gardening in the summer months;&mdash;and they said also
that he made up for this by working hard all Sunday.&nbsp; Such was
Mr Squercum,&mdash;a sign, in his way, that the old things are being
changed.

<p>Squercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic
confusion, on a chair which moved on a pivot.&nbsp; His desk was
against the wall, and when clients came to him, he turned himself
sharp round, sticking out his dirty shoes, throwing himself back
till his body was an inclined plane, with his hands thrust into his
pockets.&nbsp; In this attitude he would listen to his client's
story, and would himself speak as little as possible.&nbsp; It was
by his instructions that Dolly had insisted on getting his share of
the purchase money for Pickering into his own hands, so that the
incumbrance on his own property might be paid off.&nbsp; He now
listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment.&nbsp;
"Melmotte's at Pickering?" asked the attorney.&nbsp; Then Dolly
informed him how the tradesmen of the great financier had already
half knocked down the house.&nbsp; Squercum still listened, and
promised to look to it.&nbsp; He did ask what authority Dolly had
given for the surrender of the title-deeds.&nbsp; Dolly declared
that he had given authority for the sale, but none for the
surrender.&nbsp; His father, some time since, had put before him,
for his signature, a letter, prepared in Mr Bideawhile's office,
which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, and certainly
had not signed.&nbsp; Squercum again said that he'd look to it, and
bowed Dolly out of his room.&nbsp; "They've got him to sign
something when he was tight," said Squercum to himself, knowing
something of the habits of his client.&nbsp; "I wonder whether his
father did it, or old Bideawhile, or Melmotte himself?"&nbsp; Mr
Squercum was inclined to think that Bideawhile would not have done
it, that Melmotte could have had no opportunity, and that the
father must have been the practitioner.&nbsp; "It's not the trick
of a pompous old fool either," said Mr Squercum, in his
soliloquy.&nbsp; He went to work, however, making himself
detestably odious among the very respectable clerks in Mr
Bideawhile's office,&mdash;men who considered themselves to be
altogether superior to Squercum himself in professional standing.

<p>And now there came this rumour which was so far particular in
its details that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused Mr
Melmotte, to his mode of acquiring the Pickering property.&nbsp;
The nature of the forgery was of course described in various
ways,&mdash;as was also the signature said to have been forged.&nbsp;
But there were many who believed, or almost believed, that
something wrong had been done,&mdash;that some great fraud had been
committed; and in connection with this it was ascertained,&mdash;by some
as a matter of certainty,&mdash;that the Pickering estate had been
already mortgaged by Melmotte to its full value at an assurance
office.&nbsp; In such a transaction there would be nothing
dishonest; but as this place had been bought for the great man's
own family use, and not as a speculation, even this report of the
mortgage tended to injure his credit.&nbsp; And then, as the day
went on, other tidings were told as to other properties.&nbsp;
Houses in the East-end of London were said to have been bought and
sold, without payment of the purchase money as to the buying, and
with receipt of the purchase money as to the selling.

<p>It was certainly true that Squercum himself had seen the letter
in Mr Bideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the
son's sanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that
letter, prepared in Mr Bideawhile's office, purported to have
Dolly's signature.&nbsp; Squercum said but little, remembering that
his client was not always clear in the morning as to anything he
had done on the preceding evening.&nbsp; But the signature, though
it was scrawled as Dolly always scrawled it, was not like the
scrawl of a drunken man.

<p>The letter was said to have been sent to Mr Bideawhile's office
with other letters and papers, direct from old Mr
Longestaffe.&nbsp; Such was the statement made at first to Mr
Squercum by the Bideawhile party, who at that moment had no doubt
of the genuineness of the letter or of the accuracy of their
statement.&nbsp; Then Squercum saw his client again, and returned
to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the positive assurance
that the signature was a forgery.&nbsp; Dolly, when questioned by
Squercum, quite admitted his propensity to be "tight".&nbsp;
He had no reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters.&nbsp;
But he had signed no letter when he was tight.&nbsp; "Never did
such a thing in my life, and nothing could make me," said
Dolly.&nbsp; "I'm never tight except at the club, and the letter
couldn't have been there.&nbsp; I'll be drawn and quartered if I
ever signed it.&nbsp; That's flat."&nbsp; Dolly was intent on going
to his father at once, on going to Melmotte at once, on going to
Bideawhile's at once, and making there "no end of a row,"&mdash;but
Squercum stopped him.&nbsp; "We'll just ferret this thing out
quietly," said Squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be
high honour in discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of
the matter till the Saturday after his last interview with Melmotte
in the City.&nbsp; He had then called at Bideawhile's office in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and had been shown the letter.&nbsp; He
declared at once that he had never sent the letter to Mr
Bideawhile.&nbsp; He had begged his son to sign the letter and his
son had refused.&nbsp; He did not at that moment distinctly
remember what he had done with the letter unsigned.&nbsp; He
believed he had left it with the other papers; but it was possible
that his son might have taken it away.&nbsp; He acknowledged that
at the time he had been both angry and unhappy.&nbsp; He didn't
think that he could have sent the letter back unsigned,&mdash;but he was
not sure.&nbsp; He had more than once been in his own study in
Bruton Street since Mr Melmotte had occupied the house,&mdash;by that
gentleman's leave,&mdash;having left various papers there under his own
lock and key.&nbsp; Indeed it had been matter of agreement that he
should have access to his own study when he let the house.&nbsp; He
thought it probable that he would have kept back the unsigned
letter, and have kept it under lock and key, when he sent away the
other papers.&nbsp; Then reference was made to Mr Longestaffe's own
letter to the lawyer, and it was found that he had not even alluded
to that which his son had been asked to sign; but that he had said,
in his own usually pompous style, that Mr Longestaffe, junior, was
still prone to create unsubstantial difficulties.&nbsp; Mr
Bideawhile was obliged to confess that there had been a want of
caution among his own people.&nbsp; This allusion to the creation
of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied, as it was supposed to have
been, by Dolly's letter doing away with all difficulties, should
have attracted notice.&nbsp; Dolly's letter must have come in a
separate envelope; but such envelope could not be found, and the
circumstance was not remembered by the clerk.&nbsp; The clerk who
had prepared the letter for Dolly's signature represented himself
as having been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath
his notice with Dolly's well-known signature.

<p>Such were the facts as far as they were known at Messrs. Slow
and Bideawhile's office,&mdash;from whom no slightest rumour emanated;
and as they had been in part collected by Squercum, who was
probably less prudent.&nbsp; The Bideawhiles were still perfectly
sure that Dolly had signed the letter, believing the young man to
be quite incapable of knowing on any day what he had done on the
day before.

<p>Squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it.&nbsp;
And it must be owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this
occasion was qualified to convince.&nbsp; "Yes," he said to
Squercum; "it's easy saying that I'm lack-a-daisical.&nbsp; But I
know when I'm lack-a-daisical and when I'm not.&nbsp; Awake or
asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter."&nbsp; And Mr
Squercum believed him.

<p>It would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the City
on this Monday morning.&nbsp; Though the elder Longestaffe had
first heard of the matter only on the previous Saturday, Mr
Squercum had been at work for above a week.&nbsp; Mr Squercum's
little matter alone might hardly have attracted the attention which
certainly was given on this day to Mr Melmotte's private
affairs;&mdash;but other facts coming to light assisted Squercum's
views.&nbsp; A great many shares of the South Central Pacific and
Mexican Railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had
passed through the hands of Mr Cohenlupe;&mdash;and Mr Cohenlupe in the
City had been all to Mr Melmotte as Lord Alfred had been at the
West End.&nbsp; Then there was the mortgage of this Pickering
property, for which the money certainly had not been paid; and
there was the traffic with half a street of houses near the
Commercial Road, by which a large sum of money had come into Mr
Melmotte's hands.&nbsp; It might, no doubt, all be right.&nbsp;
There were many who thought that it would all be right.&nbsp; There
were not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for these
rumours.&nbsp; But it was felt to be a pity that Mr Melmotte was
not in the City.

<p>This was the day of the dinner.&nbsp; The Lord Mayor had even
made up his mind that he would not go to the dinner.&nbsp; What one
of his brother aldermen said to him about leaving others in the
lurch might be quite true; but, as his lordship remarked, Melmotte
was a commercial man, and as these were commercial transactions it
behoved the Lord Mayor of London to be more careful than other
men.&nbsp; He had always had his doubts, and he would not go.&nbsp;
Others of the chosen few of the City who had been honoured with
commands to meet the Emperor resolved upon absenting themselves
unless the Lord Mayor went.&nbsp; The affair was very much
discussed, and there were no less than six declared City
defaulters.&nbsp; At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and
sent a note to Miles Grendall excusing himself, which was thrust
into the secretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived.

<p>But a reverse worse than this took place;&mdash;a defalcation more
injurious to the Melmotte interests generally even than that which
was caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the City
Magnates.&nbsp; The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the
tidings in an exaggerated form.&nbsp; It was whispered about that
Melmotte had been detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a
large property, and that he had already been visited by
policemen.&nbsp; By some it was believed that the Great Financier
would lie in the hands of the Philistines while the Emperor of
China was being fed at his house.&nbsp; In the third edition of the
"Evening Pulpit" came out a mysterious paragraph which nobody could
understand but they who had known all about it before.&nbsp; "A
rumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have been
committed by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling
to mention.&nbsp; If it be so it is indeed remarkable that they
should have come to light at the present moment.&nbsp; We cannot
trust ourselves to say more than this."&nbsp; No one wishes to dine
with a swindler.&nbsp; No one likes even to have dined with a
swindler,&mdash;especially to have dined with him at a time when his
swindling was known or suspected.&nbsp; The Emperor of China no
doubt was going to dine with this man.&nbsp; The motions of
Emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to
be impossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be
felt to be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger
had been solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the
country.&nbsp; Nor was the thing as yet so far certain as to
justify such a charge, were it possible.&nbsp; But many men were
unhappy in their minds.&nbsp; How would the story be told hereafter
if Melmotte should be allowed to play out his game of host to the
Emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon as the Eastern Monarch
should have left his house?&nbsp; How would the brother of the Sun
like the remembrance of the banquet which he had been instructed to
honour with his presence?&nbsp; How would it tell in all the
foreign newspapers, in New York, in Paris, and Vienna, that this
man who had been cast forth from the United States, from France,
and from Austria had been selected as the great and honourable type
of British Commerce?&nbsp; There were those in the House who
thought that the absolute consummation of the disgrace might yet be
avoided, and who were of opinion that the dinner should be
"postponed."&nbsp; The leader of the Opposition had a few words on
the subject with the Prime Minister.&nbsp; "It is the merest
rumour," said the Prime Minister.&nbsp; "I have inquired, and there
is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be
substantiated."

<p>"They say that the story is believed in the City."

<p>"I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a
report.&nbsp; The Prince might probably find it impossible not to
go.&nbsp; Where should we be if Mr Melmotte to-morrow were able to
prove the whole to be a calumny, and to show that the thing had
been got up with a view of influencing the election at
Westminster?&nbsp; The dinner must certainly go on."

<p>"And you will go yourself?"

<p>"Most assuredly," said the Prime Minister.&nbsp; "And I hope
that you will keep me in countenance."&nbsp; His political
antagonist declared with a smile that at such a crisis he would not
desert his honourable friend;&mdash;but he could not answer for his
followers.&nbsp; There was, he admitted, a strong feeling among the
leaders of the Conservative party of distrust in Melmotte.&nbsp; He
considered it probable that among his friends who had been invited
there would be some who would be unwilling to meet even the Emperor
of China on the existing terms.&nbsp; "They should remember," said
the Prime Minister, "that they are also to meet their own Prince,
and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a dishonour to
him."

<p>"Just at present I can only answer for myself" said the leader
of the Opposition.&mdash;At that moment even the Prime Minister was
much disturbed in his mind; but in such emergencies a Prime
Minister can only choose the least of two evils.&nbsp; To have
taken the Emperor to dine with a swindler would be very bad; but to
desert him, and to stop the coming of the Emperor and all the
Princes on a false rumour, would be worse.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="59"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LIX.&nbsp; The Dinner</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is
in no degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is
driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he
must choose a side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as
to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be
disgraced if he should take the wrong side.&nbsp; This was felt as
a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their
mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or join themselves
to the faction of those who had determined to stay away although
they had accepted invitations.&nbsp; Some there were not without a
suspicion that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as
an electioneering trick,&mdash;so that Mr Alf might carry the borough on
the next day.&nbsp; As a dodge for an election this might be very
well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre from
meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be
marked men.&nbsp; And none of the wives, when they were consulted,
seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or
not.&nbsp; Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be
there?&nbsp; This was the only question which concerned them.&nbsp;
They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner or
after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their
diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty.&nbsp; But
yet,&mdash;what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time
the host should be apprehended for common forgery!&nbsp; The great
thing was to ascertain whether others were going.&nbsp; If a
hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent how
dreadful would be the position of those who were present!&nbsp; And
how would the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be
kept away?&nbsp; The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor
and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges
which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters
were unaware.&nbsp; There was but little time for a man to go about
town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and
questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner.&nbsp;
"Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of
Stevenage,&mdash;having left the House and gone into the park between
six and seven to pick up some hints among those who were known to
have been invited.&nbsp; The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and
of course she was going.&nbsp; "I usually keep engagements when I
make them, Mr Lupton," said the Duchess.&nbsp; She had been assured
by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was
as straight as a die.&nbsp; Lord Alfred had not then even heard of
the rumour.&nbsp; But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp
Beauclerk attended the dinner.&nbsp; They had received special
tickets as supporters of Mr Melmotte at the election,&mdash;out of the
scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,&mdash;and they thought
themselves bound in honour to be there.&nbsp; But they, with their
leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who
at last came as the political friends of the candidate for
Westminster.&nbsp; The existing ministers were bound to attend to
the Emperor and the Prince.&nbsp; But members of the Opposition, by
their presence, would support the man and the politician, and both
as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him.

<p>When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter
he had heard nothing of the matter.&nbsp; That a man so vexed with
affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers,
should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to
imagine.&nbsp; That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder
to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such
work;&mdash;as is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have
never wielded a hammer.&nbsp; Surely his whole life must have been
a life of terrors!&nbsp; But of any special peril to which he was
at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect
the work of the evening, he knew nothing.&nbsp; He placed his wife
in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his
immediate satellites around him,&mdash;among whom were included the two
Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr Cohenlupe,&mdash;with a feeling of
gratified glory.&nbsp; Nidderdale down at the House had heard the
rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his
colours.&nbsp; Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no
one had spoken to him.&nbsp; Though grievously frightened during
the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as
yet.&nbsp; And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly
in safety?&nbsp; He had not only heard,&mdash;but also knew very much,
and was not prepared to enjoy the feast.&nbsp; Since they had been
in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father.&nbsp;
"You've heard about it; haven't you?" whispered Miles.&nbsp; Lord
Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but
declared that he had heard nothing.&nbsp; "They're saying all
manner of things in the City;&mdash;forgery and heaven knows what.&nbsp;
The Lord Mayor is not coming."&nbsp; Lord Alfred made no
reply.&nbsp; It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes
when they came should be allowed to settle themselves.&nbsp; But he
was unhappy.

<p>The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand
people all came.&nbsp; The unfortunate Emperor,&mdash;we must consider a
man to be unfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as
this,&mdash;with impassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the
room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be
marshalled back into the banqueting hall.&nbsp; Melmotte, bowing to
the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by
the Emperor for some Court Master of the Ceremonies especially
selected to walk backwards on this occasion.&nbsp; The Princes had
all shaken hands with their host, and the Princesses had bowed
graciously.&nbsp; Nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered
in royal palaces.&nbsp; Besides royalty the company allowed to
enter the room downstairs was very select.&nbsp; The Prime
Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of
India with whose features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly
familiar, were alone there.&nbsp; The remainder of the company,
under the superintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the
drawing-room above.&nbsp; Everything was going on well, and they
who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their
wisdom.

<p>But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were
visible enough, and were unfortunate.&nbsp; Who does not know the
effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for
ten or twelve,&mdash;how grievous are the empty places, how destructive
of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured
to preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath
declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another
opportunity of filling a seat at her table?&nbsp; Some twenty, most
of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their
engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a
united purpose.&nbsp; A week since it had been understood that
admission for the evening could not be had for love or money, and
that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat at some banquet of
the gods!&nbsp; Now it looked as though the room were but
half-filled.&nbsp; There were six absences from the City.&nbsp;
Another six of Mr Melmotte's own political party were away.&nbsp;
The archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never
hear worldly tidings till after other people;&mdash;but that very Master
of the Buckhounds for whom so much pressure had been made did not
come.&nbsp; Two or three peers were absent, and so also was that
editor who had been chosen to fill Mr Alf's place.&nbsp; One poet,
two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their
clubs, and had gone home.&nbsp; The three independent members of
the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, and would not
lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of
forgery.&nbsp; Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of
the dinner commenced.

<p>Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to
himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar
removed, and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre,
had carried his point.&nbsp; With the anxiety natural to such an
occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course
became aware that many were absent.&nbsp; "How is it that there are
so many places empty?" he said to his faithful Achates.

<p>"Don't know," said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly
refusing to look round upon the hall.

<p>Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the
question in another shape: "Hasn't there been some mistake about
the numbers?&nbsp; There's room for ever so many more."

<p>"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and
repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr Melmotte.

<p>"What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte.&nbsp; "You've
been at it from the beginning and ought to know.&nbsp; When I
wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a
place."

<p>"Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes
fixed upon his plate.

<p>"I'll be d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; if I don't find out,"
said Melmotte.&nbsp; "There's either some horrible blunder, or else
there's been imposition.&nbsp; I don't see quite clearly.&nbsp;
Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?"

<p>"Hasn't come, I suppose."

<p>"And where's the Lord Mayor?"&nbsp; Melmotte, in spite of
royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the
hall.&nbsp; "I know all their places, and I know where they were
put.&nbsp; Have you seen the Lord Mayor?"

<p>"No; I haven't seen him at all."

<p>"But he was to come.&nbsp; What's the meaning of it, Alfred?"

<p>"Don't know anything about it."&nbsp; He shook his head but
would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room.

<p>"And where's Mr Killegrew,&mdash;and Sir David Boss?"&nbsp; Mr
Killegrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and
destined for important offices in the Conservative party.&nbsp;
"There are ever so many people not here.&nbsp; Why, there's not
above half of them down the room.&nbsp; What's up, Alfred?&nbsp; I
must know."

<p>"I tell you I know nothing.&nbsp; I could not make them
come."&nbsp; Lord Alfred's answers were made not only with a surly
voice, but also with a surly heart.&nbsp; He was keenly alive to
the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would
partly be attached to himself.&nbsp; At the present moment he was
anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmotte,
by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing
special attention to him.&nbsp; "If you go on making a row," he
said, "I shall go away."&nbsp; Melmotte looked at him with all his
eyes.&nbsp; "Just sit quiet and let the thing go on.&nbsp; You'll
know all about it soon enough."&nbsp; This was hardly the way to
give Mr Melmotte peace of mind.&nbsp; For a few minutes he did sit
quiet.&nbsp; Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the
guests.

<p>In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various
denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those
Banquo's seats.&nbsp; As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as
there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into
English,&mdash;the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret
Manchoo into ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,&mdash;it
was not within his Imperial Majesty's power to have much
conversation with his neighbours.&nbsp; And as his neighbours on
each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and
wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more
comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each
other.&nbsp; Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and,
like most of us, probably found their duties irksome.&nbsp; The
brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful
Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an
Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a
weary time of it.&nbsp; He sat there for more than two hours,
awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much,&mdash;for this
was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much,&mdash;for this was
not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own
awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of
China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this
buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks.&nbsp; "And
this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in
the West!"&nbsp; If a prince of our own was forced, for the good of
the country, to go among some far-distant outlandish people, and
there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round,
the change to him could hardly be so great.

<p>"Where's Sir Gregory?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper,
bending over the chair of a City friend.&nbsp; It was old Todd, the
senior partner of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.&nbsp; Mr Todd
was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the
City.

<p>"Ain't he here?" said Todd,&mdash;knowing very well who had come from
the City and who had declined.

<p>"No;&mdash;and the Lord Mayor's not come;&mdash;nor Postlethwaite, nor
Bunter.&nbsp; What's the meaning of it?"

<p>Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he
answered.&nbsp; "I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr Melmotte; and
I've had a very good dinner.&nbsp; They who haven't come, have lost
a very good dinner."

<p>There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not
rid himself.&nbsp; He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew
also from Lord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each
of them could tell him if he would.&nbsp; But he was unable to make
the men open their mouths.&nbsp; And yet it might be so important
to him that he should know!&nbsp; "It's very odd," he said, "that
gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away.&nbsp; There
were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to
welcome, if I had known that there would be room.&nbsp; I think it
is very odd."

<p>"It is odd," said Mr Todd, turning his attention to the plate
before him.

<p>Melmotte had lately seen much of Beaucharnp Beauclerk, in
reference to the coming election.&nbsp; Passing back up the table,
he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him.&nbsp;
There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the
places for the Conservative gentlemen had been set apart
together.&nbsp; There Mr Melmotte seated himself for a minute,
thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally.&nbsp;
Prudence should have kept him silent.&nbsp; Let the cause of these
desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to
him that he could apply no remedy to it now.&nbsp; But he was
bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at
every moment.&nbsp; He was now striving to trust to his arrogance
and declaring that nothing should cow him.&nbsp; And then again he
was so cowed that he was ready to creep to any one for
assistance.&nbsp; Personally, Mr Beauclerk had disliked the man
greatly.&nbsp; Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known,
Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most
arrogant.&nbsp; But he had taken the business of Melmotte's
election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte
till that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own
house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy.&nbsp; His wife
was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; "You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr
Melmotte," said the lady, looking up at the royal table.

<p>"Yes, ma'am, yes.&nbsp; His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased
to intimate that he has been much gratified."&mdash;Had the Emperor
in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his
imperial word.&mdash;"Can you tell me, Mr Beauchamp, why those
other gentlemen are not here?&nbsp; It looks very odd; does it
not?"

<p>"Ah; you mean Killegrew."

<p>"Yes; Mr Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot.&nbsp;
I made a particular point of their coming.&nbsp; I said I wouldn't
have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked.&nbsp; They
were going to make it a Government thing; but I said no.&nbsp; I
insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not
here.&nbsp; I know the cards were sent and, by George, I have their
answers, saying they'd come."

<p>"I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr Beauchamp.

<p>"Engaged!&nbsp; What business has a man to accept one engagement
and then take another?&nbsp; And, if so, why shouldn't he write and
make his excuses?&nbsp; No, Mr Beauchamp, that won't go down."

<p>"I'm here, at any rate," said Beauchamp, making the very answer
that had occurred to Mr Todd.

<p>"Oh, yes, you're here.&nbsp; You're all right.&nbsp; But what is
it, Mr Beauchamp?&nbsp; There's something up, and you must have
heard."&nbsp; And so it was clear to Mr Beauchamp that the man knew
nothing about it himself.&nbsp; If there was anything wrong,
Melmotte was not aware that the wrong had been discovered.&nbsp;
"Is it anything about the election to-morrow?"

<p>"One never can tell what is actuating people," said Mr
Beauchamp.

<p>"If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell
me."

<p>"I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken
to-morrow.&nbsp; You and I have got nothing more to do in the
matter except to wait the result."

<p>"Well; I suppose it's all right," said Melmotte, rising and
going back to his seat.&nbsp; But he knew that things were not all
right.&nbsp; Had his political friends only been absent, he might
have attributed their absence to some political cause which would
not have touched him deeply.&nbsp; But the treachery of the Lord
Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribe was a blow.&nbsp; For another hour
after he had returned to his place, the Emperor sat solemn in his
chair; and then, at some signal given by some one, he was
withdrawn.&nbsp; The ladies had already left the room about half an
hour.&nbsp; According to the programme arranged for the evening,
the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of
coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude
who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long
enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent
the evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the
Princesses.&nbsp; The plan was carried out perfectly.&nbsp; At
half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half
an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had been
prepared for him.&nbsp; How one would wish to see the inside of the
mind of the Emperor as it worked on that occasion!

<p>Melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into
the banqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about
till he found Miles Grendall.

<p>"Miles," he said, "tell me what the row is."

<p>"How row?" asked Miles.

<p>"There's something wrong, and you know all about it.&nbsp; Why
didn't the people come?"&nbsp; Miles, looking guilty, did not even
attempt to deny his knowledge.&nbsp; "Come; what is it?&nbsp; We
might as well know all about it at once."&nbsp; Miles looked down
on the ground, and grunted something.&nbsp; "Is it about the
election?"

<p>"No, it's not that," said Miles.

<p>"Then what is it?"

<p>"They got hold of something to-day in the City&mdash;about Pickering."

<p>"They did, did they?&nbsp; And what were they saying about
Pickering?&nbsp; Come; you might as well out with it.&nbsp; You
don't suppose that I care what lies they tell."

<p>"They say there's been something&mdash;forged.&nbsp; Title-deeds, I
think they say."

<p>"Title-deeds!&nbsp; that I have forged title-deeds.&nbsp; Well;
that's beginning well.&nbsp; And his lordship has stayed away from
my house after accepting my invitation because he has heard that
story!&nbsp; All right, Miles; that will do."&nbsp; And the Great
Financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="60"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LX.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe's Lover</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>A few days before that period in our story which we have now
reached, Miss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back
drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for
Madame Melmotte's grand reception had been transferred to Lady
Monogram,&mdash;the place on the cards for the names of the friends whom
Madame Melmotte had the honour of inviting to meet the Emperor and
the Princes, having been left blank; and the terms also on which
Miss Longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her
dear friend Lady Monogram.&nbsp; Each lady was disposed to get as
much and to give as little as possible,&mdash;in which desire the ladies
carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to a
bargain.&nbsp; It had of course been settled that Lady Monogram was
to have the two tickets,&mdash;for herself and her husband,&mdash;such
tickets at that moment standing very high in the market.&nbsp; In
payment for these valuable considerations, Lady Monogram was to
undertake to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to
take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one
party at her own house during the time, so that it might be seen
that Miss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the
Melmottes on whom to depend for her London gaieties.&nbsp; At this
moment Miss Longestaffe felt herself justified in treating the
matter as though she were hardly receiving a fair equivalent.&nbsp;
The Melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high.&nbsp; They
had just culminated.&nbsp; They fell a little soon afterwards, and
at ten p.m. on the night of the entertainment were hardly worth
anything.&nbsp; At the moment which we have now in hand, there was
a rush for them.&nbsp; Lady Monogram had already secured the
tickets.&nbsp; They were in her desk.&nbsp; But, as will sometimes
be the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she
had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be
added to the stipulated price.

<p>"As for that, my dear," said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the
rise in Melmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume
something of her old manners, "I don't see what you mean at
all.&nbsp; You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her
father-in-law is Mr Brehgert's junior partner."

<p>"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr Goldsheiner
has, in some sort of way, got himself in.&nbsp; He hunts, and
Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham.&nbsp; I
never met old Mr Goldsheiner anywhere."

<p>"I have."

<p>"Oh, yes, I dare say.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte, of course, entertains
all the City people.&nbsp; I don't think Sir Damask would like me
to ask Mr Brehgert to dine here."&nbsp; Lady Monogram managed
everything herself with reference to her own parties; invited all
her own guests, and never troubled Sir Damask,&mdash;who, again, on his
side, had his own set of friends; but she was very clever in the
use which she made of her husband.&nbsp; There were some aspirants
who really were taught to think that Sir Damask was very particular
as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house.

<p>"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?" asked Miss Longestaffe,
who was very urgent on the occasion.

<p>"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that.&nbsp;
There are little things which a man and his wife must manage
together without interference."

<p>"Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family.&nbsp; But
really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr
Brehgert, it does sound odd.&nbsp; As for City people, you know as
well as I do, that that kind of thing is all over now.&nbsp; City
people are just as good as West End people."

<p>"A great deal better, I dare say.&nbsp; I'm not arguing about
that.&nbsp; I don't make the lines; but there they are; and one
gets to know in a sort of way what they are.&nbsp; I don't pretend
to be a bit better than my neighbours.&nbsp; I like to see people
come here whom other people who come here will like to meet.&nbsp;
I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir Damask.&nbsp; But we
ain't big enough to introduce newcomers.&nbsp; I don't suppose
there's anybody in London understands it better than you do,
Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach
you.&nbsp; I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I
shouldn't know Mr Brehgert if I were to see him."

<p>"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you
said once, you're glad enough to go there."

<p>"Quite true, my dear.&nbsp; I don't think that you are just the
person to throw that in my teeth; but never mind that.&nbsp;
There's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who
comes to do my hair.&nbsp; I don't at all think of asking them to
my house.&nbsp; But if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful
men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them
here.&nbsp; That's the way we live, and you are as well used to it
as I am.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher
round the corner."&nbsp; Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under
lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.

<p>"He is not a bit like a butcher," said Miss Longestaffe, blazing
up in real wrath.

<p>"I did not say that he was."

<p>"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly
say.&nbsp; It was meant to be unkind.&nbsp; It was monstrous.&nbsp;
How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a
hair-dresser?"

<p>"You can say so if you please.&nbsp; Sir Damask drives four in
hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is
one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht
as well as any other gentleman out.&nbsp; And I'm rather afraid
that before he was married he used to box with all the
prize-fighters, and to be a little too free behind the
scenes.&nbsp; If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there
he is."

<p>"How proud you are of his vices."

<p>"He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere
with me, I don't interfere with him.&nbsp; I hope you'll do as
well.&nbsp; I dare say Mr Brehgert is good-natured."

<p>"He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large
fortune."

<p>"And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a
comfort."

<p>"If I don't mind them, why need you?&nbsp; You have none at all,
and you find it lonely enough."

<p>"Not at all lonely.&nbsp; I have everything that I desire.&nbsp;
How hard you are trying to be ill-natured, Georgiana."

<p>"Why did you say that he was a&mdash;butcher?"

<p>"I said nothing of the kind.&nbsp; I didn't even say that he was
like a butcher.&nbsp; What I did say was this,&mdash;that I don't feel
inclined to risk my own reputation on the appearance of new people
at my table.&nbsp; Of course, I go in for what you call
fashion.&nbsp; Some people can dare to ask anybody they meet in the
streets.&nbsp; I can't.&nbsp; I've my own line, and I mean to
follow it.&nbsp; It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would be
harder still if I wasn't particular.&nbsp; If you like Mr Brehgert
to come here on Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you
can ask him; but as for having him to dinner,
I&mdash;won't&mdash;do&mdash;it."&nbsp; So the matter was at last settled.&nbsp;
Miss Longestaffe did ask Mr Brehgert for the Tuesday evening, and
the two ladies were again friends.

<p>Perhaps Lady Monogram, when she illustrated her position by an
allusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that Mr
Brehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade
are supposed to bear.&nbsp; Let us at least hope that she was
so.&nbsp; He was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain
degree, about fifty, with hair dyed black, and beard and moustache
dyed a dark purple colour.&nbsp; The charm of his face consisted in
a pair of very bright black eyes, which were, however, set too near
together in his face for the general delight of Christians.&nbsp;
He was stout;&mdash;fat all over rather than corpulent,&mdash;and had that
look of command in his face which has become common to
master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep and
oxen.&nbsp; But Mr Brehgert was considered to be a very good man of
business, and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of
view, the leading member of the great financial firm of which he
was the second partner.&nbsp; Mr Todd's day was nearly done.&nbsp;
He walked about constantly between Lombard Street, the Exchange,
and the Bank, and talked much to merchants; he had an opinion too
of his own on particular cases; but the business had almost got
beyond him, and Mr Brehgert was now supposed to be the moving
spirit of the firm.&nbsp; He was a widower, living in a luxurious
villa at Fulham with a family, not indeed grown up, as Lady
Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown up
before long, varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just
been placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of
twelve, who was at school at Brighton.&nbsp; He was a man who
always asked for what he wanted; and having made up his mind that
he wanted a second wife, had asked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to
fill that situation.&nbsp; He had met her at the Melmottes', had
entertained her, with Madame Melmotte and Marie, at Beaudesert, as
he called his villa, had then proposed in the square, and two days
after had received an assenting answer in Bruton Street.

<p>Poor Miss Longestaffe!&nbsp; Although she had acknowledged the
fact to Lady Monogram in her desire to pave the way for the
reception of herself into society as a married woman, she had not
as yet found courage to tell her family.&nbsp; The man was
absolutely a Jew;&mdash;not a Jew that had been, as to whom there might
possibly be a doubt whether he or his father or his grandfather had
been the last Jew of the family; but a Jew that was.&nbsp; So was
Goldsheiner a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had married,&mdash;or at any
rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with that
lady.&nbsp; She counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of
"decent people" who had married Jews or Jewesses.&nbsp; Lord
Frederic Framlinghame had married a girl of the Berrenhoffers; and
Mr Hart had married a Miss Chute.&nbsp; She did not know much of
Miss Chute, but was certain that she was a Christian.&nbsp; Lord
Frederic's wife and Lady Julia Goldsheiner were seen
everywhere.&nbsp; Though she hardly knew how to explain the matter
even to herself, she was sure that there was at present a general
heaving-up of society on this matter, and a change in progress
which would soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody
was Jew or Christian.&nbsp; For herself she regarded the matter not
at all, except as far as it might be regarded by the world in which
she wished to live.&nbsp; She was herself above all personal
prejudices of that kind.&nbsp; Jew, Turk, or infidel was nothing to
her.&nbsp; She had seen enough of the world to be aware that her
happiness did not lie in that direction, and could not depend in
the least on the religion of her husband.&nbsp; Of course she would
go to church herself.&nbsp; She always went to church.&nbsp; It was
the proper thing to do.&nbsp; As to her husband, though she did not
suppose that she could ever get him to church,&mdash;nor perhaps would
it be desirable,&mdash;she thought that she might induce him to go
nowhere, so that she might be able to pass him off as a
Christian.&nbsp; She knew that such was the Christianity of young
Goldsheiner, of which the Starts were now boasting.

<p>Had she been alone in the world she thought that she could have
looked forward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid
of her father and mother.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was distressingly
old-fashioned, and had so often spoken with horror even of the
approach of a Jew,&mdash;and had been so loud in denouncing the iniquity
of Christians who allowed such people into their houses!&nbsp;
Unfortunately, too, Georgiana in her earlier days had re-echoed all
her mother's sentiments.&nbsp; And then her father,&mdash;if he had ever
earned for himself the right to be called a Conservative politician
by holding a real opinion of his own,&mdash;it had been on that matter
of admitting the Jews into parliament.&nbsp; When that had been
done he was certain that the glory of England was sunk for
ever.&nbsp; And since that time, whenever creditors were more than
ordinarily importunate, when Slow and Bideawhile could do nothing
for him, he would refer to that fatal measure as though it was the
cause of every embarrassment which had harassed him.&nbsp; How
could she tell parents such as these that she was engaged to marry
a man who at the present moment went to synagogue on a Saturday and
carried out every other filthy abomination common to the despised
people?

<p>That Mr Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for
hair-dye, was in itself distressing:&mdash;but this minor distress was
swallowed up in the greater.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe was a girl
possessing considerable discrimination, and was able to weigh her
own possessions in just scales.&nbsp; She had begun life with very
high aspirations, believing in her own beauty, in her mother's
fashion, and her father's fortune.&nbsp; She had now been ten years
at the work, and was aware that she had always flown a little too
high for her mark at the time.&nbsp; At nineteen and twenty and
twenty-one she had thought that all the world was before her.&nbsp;
With her commanding figure, regular long features, and bright
complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of the
day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a
Coronet.&nbsp; At twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four any
young peer, or peer's eldest son, with a house in town and in the
country, might have sufficed.&nbsp; Twenty-five and six had been
the years for baronets and squires; and even a leading fashionable
lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient since that
time.&nbsp; But now she was aware that hitherto she had always
fixed her price a little too high.&nbsp; On three things she was
still determined,&mdash;that she would not be poor, that she would not
be banished from London, and that she would not be an old
maid.&nbsp; "Mamma," she had often said, "there's one thing
certain.&nbsp; I shall never do to be poor."&nbsp; Lady Pomona had
expressed full concurrence with her child.&nbsp; "And, mamma, to do
as Sophia is doing would kill me.&nbsp; Fancy having to live at
Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable!"&nbsp; Lady Pomona
had agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hall was a
very nice home for her elder daughter.&nbsp; "And, mamma, I should
drive you and papa mad if I were to stay at home always.&nbsp; And
what would become of me when Dolly was master of everything?"&nbsp;
Lady Pomona, looking forward as well as she was able to the time at
which she should herself have departed, when her dower and
dower-house would have reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that
Georgiana should provide herself with a home of her own before that
time.

<p>And how was this to be done?&nbsp; Lovers with all the glories
and all the graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by
girls of nineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits
by girls of twenty-nine.&nbsp; Brehgert was rich, would live in
London, and would be a husband.&nbsp; People did such odd things
now and "lived them down," that she could see no reason why she
should not do this and live this down.&nbsp; Courage was the one
thing necessary,&mdash;that and perseverance.&nbsp; She must teach
herself to talk about Brehgert as Lady Monogram did of Sir
Damask.&nbsp; She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her
to declare her fate to her old friend,&mdash;remembering as she did so
how in days long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had
scattered their scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man
with a Jewish name,&mdash;whose grandfather had possibly been a
Jew.&nbsp; "Dear me," said Lady Monogram.&nbsp; "Todd, Brehgert,
and Goldsheiner!&nbsp; Mr Todd is&mdash;one of us, I suppose."

<p>"Yes," said Georgiana boldly, "and Mr Brehgert is a Jew.&nbsp;
His name is Ezekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew.&nbsp; You can say
what you like about it."

<p>"I don't say anything about it, my dear."

<p>"And you can think anything you like.&nbsp; Things are changed
since you and I were younger."

<p>"Very much changed, it appears," said Lady Monogram.&nbsp; Sir
Damask's religion had never been doubted, though except on the
occasion of his marriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever
seen him in church.

<p>But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than
she had shown even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that
spirit had not as yet come to her.&nbsp; On the morning before she
left the Melmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with
her.&nbsp; The Melmottes of course knew of the engagement and quite
approved of it.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte rather aspired to credit for
having had so happy an affair arranged under her auspices.&nbsp; It
was some set-off against Marie's unfortunate escapade.&nbsp; Mr
Brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to come and go as he pleased,
and on that morning he had pleased to come.&nbsp; They were sitting
alone in some back room, and Brehgert was pressing for an early
day.&nbsp; "I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr Brehgert,"
she said.

<p>"You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel
at once," he remarked.&nbsp; Georgiana frowned, and made no soft
little attempt at the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont
to do.&nbsp; "Mrs Brehgert"&mdash;he alluded of course to the mother of
his children&mdash;"used to call me Ezzy."

<p>"Perhaps I shall do so some day," said Miss Longestaffe, looking
at her lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able
to have the house and the money and the name of the wife without
the troubles appertaining.&nbsp; She did not think it possible that
she should ever call him Ezzy.

<p>"And ven shall it be?&nbsp; I should say as early in August as
possible."

<p>"In August!" she almost screamed.&nbsp; It was already July.

<p>"Vy not, my dear?&nbsp; Ve would have our little holiday in
Germany at Vienna.&nbsp; I have business there, and know many
friends."&nbsp; Then he pressed her hard to fix some day in the
next month.&nbsp; It would be expedient that they should be married
from the Melmottes' house, and the Melmottes would leave town some
time in August.&nbsp; There was truth in this.&nbsp; Unless married
from the Melmottes' house, she must go down to Caversham for the
occasion,&mdash;which would be intolerable.&nbsp; No,&mdash;she must separate
herself altogether from father and mother, and become one with the
Melmottes and the Brehgerts,&mdash;till she could live it down and make
a position for herself.&nbsp; If the spending of money could do it,
it should be done.

<p>"I must at any rate ask mamma about it," said Georgiana.&nbsp;
Mr Brehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was
satisfied with the answer, and went away promising that he would
meet his love at the great Melmotte reception.&nbsp; Then she sat
silent, thinking how she should declare the matter to her
family.&nbsp; Would it not be better for her to say to them at once
that there must be a division among them,&mdash;an absolute breaking off
of all old ties, so that it should be tacitly acknowledged that
she, Georgiana, had gone out from among the Longestaffes
altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes, Brehgerts, and
Goldsheiners?
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="61"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXI.&nbsp; Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram
and Miss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr Melmotte
was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very
precious.&nbsp; Gradually their value subsided.&nbsp; Lady Monogram
had paid very dear for hers,&mdash;especially as the reception of Mr
Brehgert must be considered.&nbsp; But high prices were then being
paid.&nbsp; A lady offered to take Marie Melmotte into the country
with her for a week; but this was before the elopement.&nbsp; Mr
Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a
countess.&nbsp; Lord Alfred received various presents.&nbsp; A
young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it
was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte.&nbsp; And Miles
Grendall got back an I.O.U. of considerable nominal value
from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country
cousins who were in London.&nbsp; Gradually the prices fell;&mdash;not
at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through that customary
reaction which may be expected on such occasions.&nbsp; But at
eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were
worth nothing.&nbsp; The rumour had then spread itself through the
whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone.&nbsp; Men coming home from
clubs had told their wives.&nbsp; Ladies who had been in the park
had heard it.&nbsp; Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids
had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding
horses and seated on the coach-boxes.&nbsp; It had got into the
air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.

<p>I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to
his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what
might be the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and
made no calculation.&nbsp; "Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said,
rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.

<p>"What is up?"

<p>"Haven't you been out?"

<p>"I was shopping, and that kind of thing.&nbsp; I don't want to
take that girl into the Park.&nbsp; I've made a mistake in having
her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can."

<p>"Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are."

<p>"Oh, bother!&nbsp; I know what I'm about.&nbsp; What is it you
mean?"

<p>"They say Melmotte's been found out."

<p>"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some
arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of
her not going to the reception.&nbsp; "What do you mean by found
out?"

<p>"I don't know exactly.&nbsp; There are a dozen stories
told.&nbsp; It's something about that place he bought of old
Longestaffe."

<p>"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it?&nbsp; I won't have her
here a day longer if there is anything against them."

<p>"Don't be an ass, Ju.&nbsp; There's nothing against him except
that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."

<p>"Then he's ruined,&mdash;and there's an end of them."

<p>"Perhaps he will get it now.&nbsp; Some say that Melmotte has
forged a receipt, others a letter.&nbsp; Some declare that he has
manufactured a whole set of title-deeds.&nbsp; You remember Dolly?"

<p>"Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe," said Lady Monogram, who
had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be
convenient.

<p>"They say he has found it all out.&nbsp; There was always
something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for.&nbsp;
At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before
long."

<p>"Not to-night, Damask!"

<p>"Nobody seems to know.&nbsp; Lupton was saying that the
policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the
Emperor and the Princes had gone away."

<p>"Is Mr Lupton going?"

<p>"He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind
whether he'd go or not when I saw him.&nbsp; Nobody seems to be
quite certain whether the Emperor will go.&nbsp; Somebody said that
a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do."

<p>"A Cabinet Council!"

<p>"Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince
go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken
to gaol before dinnertime.&nbsp; That's the worst part of it.&nbsp;
Nobody knows."

<p>Lady Monogram waved her attendant away.&nbsp; She piqued herself
upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English,
and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's
presence.&nbsp; But, of course, everything she did say was repeated
downstairs in some language that had become intelligible to the
servants generally.&nbsp; Lady Monogram sat motionless for some
time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his
operations.&nbsp; "Damask," she said, when he reappeared, "one
thing is certain;&mdash;we can't go."

<p>"After you've made such a fuss about it!"

<p>"It is a pity,&mdash;having that girl here in the house.&nbsp; You
know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?"

<p>"I heard about her marriage yesterday.&nbsp; But Brehgert isn't
one of Melmotte's set.&nbsp; They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad
fellow.&nbsp; A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about
him."

<p>"He's a Jew,&mdash;and he's seventy years old, and makes up
horribly."

<p>"What does it matter to you if he's eighty?&nbsp; You are
determined, then, you won't go?"

<p>But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't
go.&nbsp; She had paid her price, and with that economy which
sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she
could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought.&nbsp; She
cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy, as regarded herself.&nbsp;
That he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent
she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him.&nbsp;
She had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and
fraud.&nbsp; But it would grieve her greatly to become known as one
of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and
perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched
people,&mdash;and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the
Prince.&nbsp; But then, should she hear on the next morning that
the Emperor and the Princes, that the Princesses, and the
Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort
of world generally, had all been there,&mdash;that the world, in short,
had ignored Melmotte's villainy,&mdash;then would her grief be still
greater.&nbsp; She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss
Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter.&nbsp; Miss
Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she had
transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two.&nbsp; And a
horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind.&nbsp; What should she
do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment
were suddenly broken up?&nbsp; Of course, Madame Melmotte would
refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to
gaol.&nbsp; "I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies
left the room.

<p>"Of course we shall,&mdash;in about an hour," said Lady Monogram as
she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his
imprudence.

<p>"Because, you know&mdash;" and then he called her back.&nbsp; "If you
want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the
club."

<p>"How can I say, yet?&nbsp; You needn't mind the club to-night."

<p>"All right;&mdash;only it's a bore being here alone."

<p>Then Miss Longestaffe asked what "was up."&nbsp; "Is there any
doubt about our going to-night?"

<p>"I can't say.&nbsp; I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm
about.&nbsp; There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be
there."

<p>"Impossible!"

<p>"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady
Monogram; "but still that's what people are saying.&nbsp; You see
Mr Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps&mdash;something else has
turned up, so that he may be thrown over.&nbsp; Things of that kind
do happen.&nbsp; You had better finish dressing.&nbsp; I
shall.&nbsp; But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the
Emperor is there."&nbsp; Then she descended to her husband, whom
she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar.&nbsp; "Damask,"
she said, "you must find out."

<p>"Find out what?"

<p>"Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."

<p>"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.

<p>"He would be sure to make a blunder about it.&nbsp; If you'd go
yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute.&nbsp; Have a cab,&mdash;just
go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;&mdash;I'd do it in
a minute if I were you."&nbsp; Sir Damask was the most good-natured
man in the world, but he did not like the job.&nbsp; "What can be
the objection?" asked his wife.

<p>"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are
come before you go yourself!&nbsp; I don't just see it, Ju."

<p>"Guests!&nbsp; What nonsense!&nbsp; The Emperor and all the
Royal Family!&nbsp; As if it were like any other party.&nbsp; Such
a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen
again.&nbsp; If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will."&nbsp;
Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that
he would go.&nbsp; He made many remonstrances.&nbsp; It was a
confounded bore.&nbsp; He hated emperors and he hated
princes.&nbsp; He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of
thing!&nbsp; He "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club
and sent word up home that the affair was to be off.&nbsp; But at
last he submitted and allowed his wife to leave the room with the
intention of sending for a cab.&nbsp; The cab was sent for and
announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his
big cigar.

<p>It was past ten when he left his own house.&nbsp; On arriving in
Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going
on.&nbsp; The house was illuminated.&nbsp; There was a concourse of
servants round the door, and half the square was already blocked up
with carriages.

<p>It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there
he saw the royal liveries.&nbsp; There was no doubt about the
party.&nbsp; The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were
all there.&nbsp; As far as Sir Damask could then perceive, the
dinner had been quite a success.&nbsp; But again there was a delay
in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before he could reach
home.&nbsp; "It's all right," said he to his wife.&nbsp; "They're
there, safe enough."

<p>"You are sure that the Emperor is there."

<p>"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."

<p>Miss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but
resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her
friends.&nbsp; "I don't understand it at all," she said.&nbsp; "Of
course the Emperor is there.&nbsp; Everybody has known for the last
month that he was coming.&nbsp; What is the meaning of it, Julia?"

<p>"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my
own way.&nbsp; I dare say I am absurd.&nbsp; But I have my
reason.&nbsp; Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better
start."&nbsp; The carriage was there, and they did start, and with
a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to Lady Monogram, who was
accustomed to these things, they reached the door.&nbsp; There was
a great crush in the hall, and people were coming downstairs.&nbsp;
But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that
the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there,&mdash;but had
taken their departure.

<p>Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to
his club.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="62"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXII.&nbsp; The Party</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Monogram retired from Mr Melmotte's house in disgust as
soon as she was able to escape; but we must return to it for a
short time.&nbsp; When the guests were once in the drawing-room the
immediate sense of failure passed away.&nbsp; The crowd never
became so thick as had been anticipated.&nbsp; They who were
knowing in such matters had declared that the people would not be
able to get themselves out of the room till three or four o'clock
in the morning, and that the carriages would not get themselves out
of the Square till breakfast time.&nbsp; With a view to this kind
of thing Mr Melmotte had been told that he must provide a private
means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with a considerable
sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements this had been
done.&nbsp; No such gathering as was expected took place; but still
the rooms became fairly full, and Mr Melmotte was able to console
himself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had as yet
occurred.

<p>There can be no doubt that the greater part of the people
assembled did believe that their host had committed some great
fraud which might probably bring him under the arm of the
law.&nbsp; When such rumours are spread abroad, they are always
believed.&nbsp; There is an excitement and a pleasure in believing
them.&nbsp; Reasonable hesitation at such a moment is dull and
phlegmatic.&nbsp; If the accused one be near enough to ourselves to
make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course we
disbelieve.&nbsp; But, if the distance be beyond this, we are
almost ready to think that anything may be true of anybody.&nbsp;
In this case nobody really loved Melmotte and everybody did
believe.&nbsp; It was so probable that such a man should have done
something horrible!&nbsp; It was only hoped that the fraud might be
great and horrible enough.

<p>Melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was
passed upstairs kept himself in the close vicinity of
royalty.&nbsp; He behaved certainly very much better than he would
have done had he had no weight at his heart.&nbsp; He made few
attempts at beginning any conversation, and answered, at any rate
with brevity, when he was addressed.&nbsp; With scrupulous care he
ticked off on his memory the names of those who had come and whom
he knew, thinking that their presence indicated a verdict of
acquittal from them on the evidence already before them.&nbsp;
Seeing the members of the Government all there, he wished that he
had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal.&nbsp; And he freely
forgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been so angry
at the India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess was
lacking of those who were expected.&nbsp; He could turn his mind to
all this, although he knew how great was his danger.&nbsp; Many
things occurred to him as he stood, striving to smile as a host
should smile.&nbsp; It might be the case that half-a-dozen
detectives were already stationed in his own hall perhaps one or
two, well dressed, in the very presence of royalty,&mdash;ready to
arrest him as soon as the guests were gone, watching him now lest
he should escape.&nbsp; But he bore the burden,&mdash;and smiled.&nbsp;
He had always lived with the consciousness that such a burden was
on him and might crush him at any time.&nbsp; He had known that he
had to run these risks.&nbsp; He had told himself a thousand times
that when the dangers came, dangers alone should never cow
him.&nbsp; He had always endeavoured to go as near the wind as he
could, to avoid the heavy hand of the criminal law of whatever
country he inhabited.&nbsp; He had studied the criminal laws, so
that he might be sure in his reckonings; but he had always felt
that he might be carried by circumstances into deeper waters than
he intended to enter.&nbsp; As the soldier who leads a forlorn
hope, or as the diver who goes down for pearls, or as the searcher
for wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knows that as his gains may be
great, so are his perils, Melmotte had been aware that in his life,
as it opened itself out to him, he might come to terrible
destruction.&nbsp; He had not always thought, or even hoped, that
he would be as he was now, so exalted as to be allowed to entertain
the very biggest ones of the earth; but the greatness had grown
upon him,&mdash;and so had the danger.&nbsp; He could not now be as
exact as he had been.&nbsp; He was prepared himself to bear all
mere ignominy with a tranquil mind,&mdash;to disregard any shouts of
reprobation which might be uttered, and to console himself when the
bad quarter of an hour should come with the remembrance that he had
garnered up a store sufficient for future wants and placed it
beyond the reach of his enemies.&nbsp; But as his intellect opened
up to him new schemes, and as his ambition got the better of his
prudence, he gradually fell from the security which he had
preconceived, and became aware that he might have to bear worse
than ignominy.

<p>Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and
his own conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he
did as he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without
impropriety the part of host to an Emperor.&nbsp; No;&mdash;he could not
run away.&nbsp; He soon made himself sure of that.&nbsp; He had
risen too high to be a successful fugitive, even should he succeed
in getting off before hands were laid upon him.&nbsp; He must bide
his ground, if only that he might not at once confess his own guilt
by flight; and he would do so with courage.&nbsp; Looking back at
the hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had
allowed himself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room,&mdash;but
also to seem to be frightened.&nbsp; The thing had come upon him
unawares and he had been untrue to himself.&nbsp; He acknowledged
that.&nbsp; He should not have asked those questions of Mr Todd and
Mr Beauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual
with Lord Alfred in discussing those empty seats.&nbsp; But for
spilt milk there is no remedy.&nbsp; The blow had come upon him too
suddenly, and he had faltered.&nbsp; But he would not falter
again.&nbsp; Nothing should cow him,&mdash;no touch from a policeman, no
warrant from a magistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in
the City, no solitude in the West End.&nbsp; He would go down among
the electors to-morrow and would stand his ground, as though all
with him were right.&nbsp; Men should know at any rate that he had
a heart within his bosom.&nbsp; And he confessed also to himself
that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance.&nbsp; He could see
it now,&mdash;as so many of us do see the faults which we have
committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which
we never confess except to our own bosoms.&nbsp; The task which he
had imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added
weight, had been very hard to bear.&nbsp; He should have been
good-humoured to these great ones whose society he had
gained.&nbsp; He should have bound these people to him by a feeling
of kindness as well as by his money.&nbsp; He could see it all
now.&nbsp; And he could see too that there was no help for spilt
milk.&nbsp; I think he took some pride in his own confidence as to
his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his
mind.&nbsp; Very much might be suspected.&nbsp; Something might be
found out.&nbsp; But the task of unravelling it all would not be
easy.&nbsp; It is the small vermin and the little birds that are
trapped at once.&nbsp; But wolves and vultures can fight hard
before they are caught.&nbsp; With the means which would still be
at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a
strong fight.&nbsp; When a man's frauds have been enormous there is
a certain safety in their very diversity and proportions.&nbsp;
Might it not be that the fact that these great ones of the earth
had been his guests should speak in his favour?&nbsp; A man who had
in very truth had the real brother of the Sun dining at his table
could hardly be sent into the dock and then sent out of it like a
common felon.

<p>Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own
stairs with a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for
a moment when any pause took place in the arrivals.&nbsp; She had
of course dined at the table,&mdash;or rather sat there;&mdash;but had been
so placed that no duty had devolved upon her.&nbsp; She had heard
no word of the rumours, and would probably be the last person in
that house to hear them.&nbsp; It never occurred to her to see
whether the places down the table were full or empty.&nbsp; She sat
with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China and must have
wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with an Emperor and
Princes to look at.&nbsp; From the dining-room she had gone when
she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performed
her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom.&nbsp; She, I
think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and
but little understanding of the position in which she had been
placed.&nbsp; Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds
and fine dresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in
duchesses or have enjoyed the company of the Emperor.&nbsp; From
the beginning of the Melmotte era it had been an understood thing
that no one spoke to Madame Melmotte.

<p>Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table.&nbsp;
This at first had been cause of quarrel between her and her father,
as he desired to have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as
being acknowledged to be betrothed to him.&nbsp; But since the
journey to Liverpool he had said nothing on the subject.&nbsp; He
still pressed the engagement, but thought now that less publicity
might be expedient.&nbsp; She was, however, in the drawing-room
standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwards retreating
among the crowd.&nbsp; To some ladies she was a person of interest
as the young woman who had lately run away under such strange
circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she
herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage
for the occasion.&nbsp; This was Hetta Carbury who had been brought
hither by her mother.

<p>The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent
before the elopement;&mdash;and also, as a matter of course, no
reference had been made to them by the Melmotte family after the
elopement.&nbsp; Lady Carbury herself was anxious that that affair
should not be considered as having given cause for any personal
quarrel between herself and Mr Melmotte, and in her difficulty had
consulted Mr Broune.&nbsp; Mr Broune was the staff on which she
leant at present in all her difficulties.&nbsp; Mr Broune was going
to the dinner.&nbsp; All this of course took place while Melmotte's
name was as yet unsullied as snow.&nbsp; Mr Broune saw no reason
why Lady Carbury should not take advantage of her tickets.&nbsp;
These invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor surrounded
by the Princes.&nbsp; The young lady's elopement is "no affair of
yours," Mr Broune had said.&nbsp; "I should go, if it were only for
the sake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be
implicated in the matter."&nbsp; Lady Carbury did as she was
advised, and took her daughter with her.&nbsp; "Nonsense," said the
mother, when Hetta objected; "Mr Broune sees it quite in the right
light.&nbsp; This is a grand demonstration in honour of the
Emperor, rather than a private party;&mdash;and we have done nothing to
offend the Melmottes.&nbsp; You know you wish to see the
Emperor."&nbsp; A few minutes before they started from Welbeck
Street a note came from Mr Broune, written in pencil and sent from
Melmotte's house by a Commissioner.&nbsp; "Don't mind what you
hear; but come.&nbsp; I am here and as far as I can see it is all
right.&nbsp; The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as
blackberries."&nbsp; Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of
hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she
went.&nbsp; And Hetta went with her.

<p>Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who
was talking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful
tranquillity of the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte
timidly crept up to her and asked her how she was.&nbsp; Hetta,
probably, was not very cordial to the poor girl, being afraid of
her, partly as the daughter of the great Melmotte and partly as the
girl with whom her brother had failed to run away; but Marie was
not rebuked by this.&nbsp; "I hope you won't be angry with me for
speaking to you."&nbsp; Hetta smiled more graciously.&nbsp; She
could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that
she was there as the guest of the girl's mother.&nbsp; "I suppose
you know about your brother," said Marie, whispering with her eyes
turned to the ground.

<p>"I have heard about it," said Hetta.&nbsp; "He never told me
himself."

<p>"Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth.&nbsp; I know
nothing.&nbsp; Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him.&nbsp; I do love
him so dearly!&nbsp; I hope you don't think I would have done it if
I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world.&nbsp; Don't
you think that if a girl loves a man,&mdash;really loves him,&mdash;that
ought to go before everything?"

<p>This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to
answer.&nbsp; She felt quite certain that under no circumstances
would she run away with a man.&nbsp; "I don't quite know.&nbsp; It
is so hard to say," she replied.

<p>"I do.&nbsp; What's the good of anything if you're to be
broken-hearted?&nbsp; I don't care what they say of me, or what
they do to me, if he would only be true to me.&nbsp; Why doesn't
he&mdash;let me know&mdash;something about it?"&nbsp; This also was a
question difficult to be answered.&nbsp; Since that horrid morning
on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,&mdash;which was now four
days since,&mdash;he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till this
evening.&nbsp; He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury
had started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed.&nbsp;
He would not get up till dinner-time, would come down after some
half-dressed fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he
would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of
headache.&nbsp; The theory was that he was ill;&mdash;but he was in
fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual
haunts.&nbsp; He was aware that he had quarrelled at the club,
aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to Liverpool,
aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated.&nbsp; He
had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him
from day to day.&nbsp; Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he
had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby
Ruggles.&nbsp; "Do tell me.&nbsp; Where is he?" pleaded Marie.

<p>"He has not been very well lately."

<p>"Is he ill?&nbsp; Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me.&nbsp; You can
understand what it is to love him as I do&mdash;can't you?"

<p>"He has been ill.&nbsp; I think he is better now."

<p>"Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know
something?&nbsp; It is cruel, is it not?&nbsp; Tell me,&mdash;you must
know,&mdash;does he really care for me?"

<p>Hetta was exceedingly perplexed.&nbsp; The real feeling betrayed
by the girl recommended her.&nbsp; Hetta could not but sympathize
with the affection manifested for her own brother, though she could
hardly understand the want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus
speaking of her love to one who was almost a stranger.&nbsp; "Felix
hardly ever talks about himself to me," she said.

<p>"If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it," Marie
said very gravely.&nbsp; "If I only knew!&nbsp; If I thought that
he loved me, I'd go through,&mdash;oh,&mdash;all the world for him.&nbsp;
Nothing that papa could say should stop me.&nbsp; That's my feeling
about it.&nbsp; I have never talked to any one but you about
it.&nbsp; Isn't that strange?&nbsp; I haven't a person to talk
to.&nbsp; That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it.&nbsp;
There's no disgrace in being in love.&nbsp; But it's very bad to
get married without being in love.&nbsp; That's what I think."

<p>"It is bad," said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury.

<p>"But if Felix doesn't care for me!" continued Marie, sinking her
voice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to
her companion.&nbsp; Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her
brother did not in the least "care for" Marie Melmotte, and that it
would be very much for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the
truth.&nbsp; But she had not that sort of strength which would have
enabled her to tell it.&nbsp; "Tell me just what you think," said
Marie.&nbsp; Hetta was still silent.&nbsp; "Ah,&mdash;I see.&nbsp; Then
I must give him up?&nbsp; Eh?"

<p>"What can I say, Miss Melmotte?&nbsp; Felix never tells
me.&nbsp; He is my brother,&mdash;and of course I love you for loving
him."&nbsp; This was almost more than Hetta meant; but she felt
herself constrained to say some gracious word.

<p>"Do you?&nbsp; Oh!&nbsp; I wish you did.&nbsp; I should so like
to be loved by you.&nbsp; Nobody loves me, I think.&nbsp; That man
there wants to marry me.&nbsp; Do you know him?&nbsp; He is Lord
Nidderdale.&nbsp; He is very nice; but he does not love me any more
than he loves you.&nbsp; That's the way with men.&nbsp; It isn't
the way with me.&nbsp; I would go with Felix and slave for him if
he were poor.&nbsp; Is it all to be over then?&nbsp; You will give
him a message from me?"&nbsp; Hetta, doubting as to the propriety
of the promise, promised that she would.&nbsp; "Just tell him I
want to know; that's all.&nbsp; I want to know.&nbsp; You'll
understand.&nbsp; I want to know the real truth.&nbsp; I suppose I
do know it now.&nbsp; Then I shall not care what happens to
me.&nbsp; It will be all the same.&nbsp; I suppose I shall marry
that young man, though it will be very bad.&nbsp; I shall just be
as if I hadn't any self of my own at all.&nbsp; But he ought to
send me word after all that has passed.&nbsp; Do not you think he
ought to send me word?"

<p>"Yes, indeed."

<p>"You tell him, then," said Marie, nodding her head as she crept
away.

<p>Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to
Miss Carbury.&nbsp; He had heard the rumour, and of course felt
that it behoved him to be on his guard more specially than any one
else.&nbsp; But he had not believed what he had heard.&nbsp; That
men should be thoroughly immoral, that they should gamble, get
drunk, run into debt, and make love to other men's wives, was to
him a matter of everyday life.&nbsp; Nothing of that kind shocked
him at all.&nbsp; But he was not as yet quite old enough to believe
in swindling.&nbsp; It had been impossible to convince him that
Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr Melmotte
had forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer
should run away in battle.&nbsp; Common soldiers, he thought, might
do that sort of thing.&nbsp; He had almost fallen in love with
Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the more
kindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said
about her father.&nbsp; And yet he knew that he must be
careful.&nbsp; If "he came a cropper" in this matter, it would be
such an awful cropper!&nbsp; "How do you like the party?" he said
to Marie.

<p>"I don't like it at all, my lord.&nbsp; How do you like it?"

<p>"Very much, indeed.&nbsp; I think the Emperor is the greatest
fun I ever saw.&nbsp; Prince Frederic,"&mdash;one of the German princes
who was staying at the time among his English cousins,&mdash;"Prince
Frederic says that he's stuffed with hay, and that he's made up
fresh every morning at a shop in the Haymarket."

<p>"I've seen him talk."

<p>"He opens his mouth, of course.&nbsp; There is machinery as well
as hay.&nbsp; I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm
awfully glad that I've dined with him.&nbsp; I couldn't make out
whether he really put anything to eat into his jolly old mouth."

<p>"Of course he did."

<p>"Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the
other day?"

<p>"No, my lord,&mdash;I haven't thought about it since.&nbsp; Why
should I?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you
know."

<p>"You don't think about it."

<p>"Don't I?&nbsp; I've been thinking about nothing else the last
three months."

<p>"You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not."

<p>"That's what I mean," said Lord Nidderdale.

<p>"It isn't what I mean, then."

<p>"I'll be shot if I can understand you."

<p>"Perhaps not.&nbsp; And you never will understand me.&nbsp; Oh,
goodness they're all going, and we must get out of the way.&nbsp;
Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay?&nbsp; He is
handsome; isn't he?&nbsp; And who is that in the violet dress with
all the pearls?"

<p>"That's the Princess Dwarza."

<p>"Dear me;&mdash;isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own
house, and not being able to speak a word to them?&nbsp; I don't
think it's at all nice.&nbsp; Good night, my lord.&nbsp; I'm glad
you like the Emperor."

<p>And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte
put his wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that
he would follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given
some last directions to the people who were putting out the lights,
and extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment.&nbsp;
He had looked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the
appearance of searching; but Lord Alfred had gone.&nbsp; Lord
Alfred was one of those who knew when to leave a falling
house.&nbsp; Melmotte at the moment thought of all that he had done
for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the real venom of
ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this
additional sign of coming evil.&nbsp; He was more than ordinarily
gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that,
considering all things, the party had gone off very well.&nbsp; "I
only wish it could have been done a little cheaper," he said
laughing.&nbsp; Then he went back into the house, and up into the
drawing-rooms which were now utterly deserted.&nbsp; Some of the
lights had been put out, but the men were busy in the rooms below,
and he threw himself into the chair in which the Emperor had
sat.&nbsp; It was wonderful that he should come to such a fate as
this;&mdash;that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his
own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and German
Royalty,&mdash;and that he should do so almost with a rope round his
neck.&nbsp; Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at
any rate remember him.&nbsp; The grand dinner which he had given
before he was put into prison would live in history.&nbsp; And it
would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative
candidate for the great borough of Westminster,&mdash;perhaps, even, the
elected member.&nbsp; He, too, in his manner, assured himself that
a great part of him would escape Oblivion.&nbsp; "Non omnis
moriar," in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his
own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent
suite of rooms from the armchair which had been consecrated by the
use of an Emperor.

<p>No policemen had come to trouble him yet.&nbsp; No hint that he
would be "wanted" had been made to him.&nbsp; There was no tangible
sign that things were not to go on as they went before.&nbsp;
Things would be exactly as they were before, but for the absence of
those guests from the dinner-table, and for the words which Miles
Grendall had spoken.&nbsp; Had he not allowed himself to be
terrified by shadows?&nbsp; Of course he had known that there must
be such shadows.&nbsp; His life had been made dark by similar
clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which had
followed them.&nbsp; He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness
which had overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of
fear which he had allowed himself to exhibit.&nbsp; There should be
no more shrinking such as that.&nbsp; When people talked of him
they should say that he was at least a man.

<p>As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in
through one of the doors, and immediately withdrawn.&nbsp; It was
his Secretary.&nbsp; "Is that you, Miles?" he said.&nbsp; "Come
in.&nbsp; I'm just going home, and came up here to see how the
empty rooms would look after they were all gone.&nbsp; What became
of your father?"

<p>"I suppose he went away."

<p>"I suppose he did," said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself from
throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,&mdash;as though
proclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running
away of the rat.&nbsp; "It went off very well, I think."

<p>"Very well," said Miles, still standing at the door.&nbsp; There
had been a few words of consultation between him and his
father,&mdash;only a very few words.&nbsp; "You'd better see it out
to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that.&nbsp; I
shall hook it.&nbsp; I sha'n't go near him to-morrow till I find
out how things are going.&nbsp; By G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;,
I've had about enough of him."&nbsp; But hardly enough of his money
or it may be presumed that Lord Alfred would have "hooked it"
sooner.

<p>"Why don't you come in, and not stand there?" said
Melmotte.&nbsp; "There's no Emperor here now for you to be afraid
of."

<p>"I'm afraid of nobody," said Miles, walking into the middle of
the room.

<p>"Nor am I.&nbsp; What's one man that another man should be
afraid of him?&nbsp; We've got to die, and there'll be an end of
it, I suppose."

<p>"That's about it," said Miles, hardly following the working of
his master's mind.

<p>"I shouldn't care how soon.&nbsp; When a man has worked as I
have done, he gets about tired at my age.&nbsp; I suppose I'd
better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?"

<p>"That's the best, I should say."

<p>"You'll be there by that time?"&nbsp; Miles Grendall assented
slowly, and with imperfect assent.&nbsp; "And tell your father he
might as well be there as early as convenient."

<p>"All right," said Miles as he took his departure.

<p>"Curs!" said Melmotte almost aloud.&nbsp; "They neither of them
will be there.&nbsp; If any evil can be done to me by treachery and
desertion, they will do it."&nbsp; Then it occurred to him to think
whether the Grendall article had been worth all the money that he
had paid for it.&nbsp; "Curs!" he said again.&nbsp; He walked down
into the hall, and through the banqueting-room, and stood at the
place where he himself had sat.&nbsp; What a scene it had been, and
how frightfully low his heart had sunk within him!&nbsp; It had
been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit him
hardest.&nbsp; "What cowards they are!"&nbsp; The men went on with
their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him.&nbsp;
The dinner had been done by contract, and the contractor's foreman
was there.&nbsp; The care of the house and the alterations had been
confided to another contractor, and his foreman was waiting to see
the place locked up.&nbsp; A confidential clerk, who had been with
Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard
the property.&nbsp; "Good night, Croll," he said to the man in
German.&nbsp; Croll touched his hat and bade him good night.&nbsp;
Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying
to catch from it some indication of the mind within.&nbsp; Did
Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of
them?&nbsp; Croll had known him in some perilous circumstances
before, and had helped him through them.&nbsp; He paused a moment
as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that
silence would be safest.&nbsp; "You'll see everything safe, eh,
Croll?"&nbsp; Croll said that he would see everything safe, and
Melmotte passed out into the Square.

<p>He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton
Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright
stars.&nbsp; If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant
worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present
burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on
earth.&nbsp; If he could even now put himself down nameless,
fameless, and without possessions in some distant corner of the
world, he could, he thought, do better.&nbsp; But he was Augustus
Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they were, to the
end.&nbsp; He could reach no place so distant but that he would be
known and traced.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="63"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXIII.&nbsp; Mr Melmotte on the Day of the Election</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so
large as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England
since the ballot had been established by law.&nbsp; Men who
heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections
would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and
weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the
dark.&nbsp; Three days since the odds had been considerably in
Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached
to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of
the voters.&nbsp; Then Sunday had intervened.&nbsp; On the Monday
Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from
morning to evening.&nbsp; Early in the day his supporters had
thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation
which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of
the afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's
mouth, and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost
deserted.&nbsp; At six o'clock there were some who suggested that
his name should be withdrawn.&nbsp; No such suggestion, however,
was made to him,&mdash;perhaps, because no one dared to make it.&nbsp;
On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as
regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the
hour was turned to the dinner.

<p>But Mr Alf's supporters were very busy.&nbsp; There had been a
close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by
their Committee as to these charges against the opposite
candidate.&nbsp; In the "Pulpit" of that evening an allusion had
been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently
intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter,
but which had given no name and mentioned no details.&nbsp; Mr Alf
explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it
only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the
public.&nbsp; He himself pointed out the fact that no note of
triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been
connected with the election.

<p>One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make
the most of it.&nbsp; "It's no more than we've all believed all
along," said the old gentleman, "and why are we to let a fellow
like that get the seat if we can keep him out?"&nbsp; He was of
opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all
its exaggerations as public as possible,&mdash;so that there should be
no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old
gentleman was full of devices by which this might be
effected.&nbsp; But the Committee generally was averse to fight in
this manner.&nbsp; Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law
Courts.&nbsp; If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud,&mdash;or,
as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud,&mdash;then
it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely
electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would
pretty well crush all those who had been concerned.&nbsp;
Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to
individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use
should be made of the rumours by Mr Alf's Committee.&nbsp; In
regard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were
busy enough.&nbsp; The dinner to the Emperor was turned into
ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves
bound to return a gentleman out of the City to Parliament because
he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties
then assembled in London.&nbsp; There was very much said on
placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte,
but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal
venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the
City.&nbsp; At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr Alf's
committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking home
to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of
Mr Alf.

<p>On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight.&nbsp; As yet
no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation
reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him.&nbsp;
On coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the
back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr Longestaffe called his
study, and which Mr Melmotte had used since he had been in Mr
Longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home.&nbsp; He
would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night
after Lord Alfred had left him.&nbsp; There were two heavy
desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the
ground.&nbsp; One of these the owner of the house had kept locked
for his own purposes.&nbsp; When the bargain for the temporary
letting of the house had been made, Mr Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe
were close friends.&nbsp; Terms for the purchase of Pickering had
just been made, and no cause for suspicion had as yet arisen.&nbsp;
Everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the
greatest ease.&nbsp; Oh dear, yes!&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe could come
whenever he pleased.&nbsp; He, Melmotte, always left the house at
ten and never returned till six.&nbsp; The ladies would never enter
that room.&nbsp; The servants were to regard Mr Longestaffe quite
as master of the house as far as that room was concerned.&nbsp; If
Mr Longestaffe could spare it, Mr Melmotte would take the key of
one of the tables.&nbsp; The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

<p>Mr Melmotte on entering the room bolted the door, and then,
sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the
drawers,&mdash;a bundle of letters and another of small documents.&nbsp;
From these, with very little examination, he took three or
four,&mdash;two or three perhaps from each.&nbsp; These he tore into
very small fragments and burned the bits,&mdash;holding them over a
gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china
plate.&nbsp; Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open
window.&nbsp; This he did to all these documents but one.&nbsp;
This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a
pulp till he swallowed it.&nbsp; When he had done this, and had
re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr
Longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the
drawers.&nbsp; It opened;&mdash;and then, without touching the contents,
he again closed it.&nbsp; He then knelt down and examined the lock,
and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran.&nbsp;
Having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of
the door, and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which
was close to hand.&nbsp; The servant found him writing letters
after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for
breakfast.&nbsp; He always breakfasted alone with a heap of
newspapers around him, and so he did on this day.&nbsp; He soon
found the paragraph alluding to himself in the "Pulpit," and read
it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his
colour.&nbsp; There was no one to see him now,&mdash;but he was acting
under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a
crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,&mdash;not even when the
policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon
him,&mdash;would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or
the loss of a drop of blood from his heart.&nbsp; He would go
through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking.&nbsp; It had
to be done, and he would do it.

<p>At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall
Place.&nbsp; He thought that he would face the world better by
walking than if he were taken in his own brougham.&nbsp; He gave
orders that the carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven,
and wait an hour for him if he was not there.&nbsp; He went along
Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to
Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had
successfully entertained the great guest of the day.&nbsp; As he
got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed
to them.&nbsp; They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one
of them stopped to speak to him.&nbsp; Of one he knew that he would
have stopped, had it not been for the rumour.&nbsp; Even after the
man had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his
face.&nbsp; He would take it all as it would come and still be the
blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,&mdash;as long as the police would
allow him.&nbsp; He probably was not aware how very different was
the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the
India Office.

<p>At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and
was informed that everything was going on regularly.&nbsp; The
electors were balloting; but with the ballot,&mdash;so said the leader
of the understrappers,&mdash;there never was any excitement.&nbsp; The
men looked half-frightened,&mdash;as though they did not quite know
whether they ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the
constable came.&nbsp; They certainly had not expected to see him
there.&nbsp; "Has Lord Alfred been here?" Melmotte asked, standing
in the inner room with his back to the empty grate.&nbsp; No,&mdash;Lord
Alfred had not been there.&nbsp; "Nor Mr Grendall?"&nbsp; The
senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for "his
Secretary," and not for Mr Grendall, but for the rumours.&nbsp; It
is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding
Charybdis.&nbsp; Mr Grendall had not been there.&nbsp; Indeed,
nobody had been there.&nbsp; "In fact, there is nothing more to be
done, I suppose?" said Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; The senior understrapper
thought that there was nothing more to be done.&nbsp; He left word
that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out again on
foot.

<p>He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling
booth.&nbsp; The place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres
for a contested election, to be wonderfully quiet.&nbsp; He was
determined to face everybody and everything, and he went close up
to the booth.&nbsp; Here he was recognised by various men,
mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him.&nbsp;
He remained there for an hour conversing with people, and at last
made a speech to a little knot around him.&nbsp; He did not allude
to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the "Pulpit" to
which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely enough of
the general accusations that had been brought against him
previously.&nbsp; He wished the electors to understand that nothing
which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here
or elsewhere.&nbsp; He was proud of his position, and proud that
the electors of Westminster should recognise it.&nbsp; He did not,
he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the
law would protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly
thrown upon him.&nbsp; He flattered himself that he was too good an
Englishman to regard the ordinary political attacks to which
candidates were, as a matter of course, subject at elections;&mdash;and
he could stretch his back to bear perhaps a little more than these,
particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return.&nbsp; But
things had been said, and published, which the excitement of an
election could not justify, and as to these things he must have
recourse to the law.&nbsp; Then he made some allusion to the
Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the
proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.

<p>It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he
had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he
was applauded throughout Covent Garden.&nbsp; A reporter for the
"Breakfast-Table" who was on duty at the place, looking for
paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the
speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it
deserved.&nbsp; It was asserted afterwards, and given as a great
proof of Melmotte's cleverness, that he had planned the thing and
gone to Covent Garden all alone having considered that in that way
could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair
had not been pre-concerted.&nbsp; It was while in Whitehall Place
that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden, and he had had
no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him.

<p>It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do
next.&nbsp; He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and
make speeches.&nbsp; His success at Covent Garden had been very
pleasant to him.&nbsp; But he feared that he might not be so
successful elsewhere.&nbsp; He had shown that he was not afraid of
the electors.&nbsp; Then an idea struck him that he would go boldly
into the City,&mdash;to his own offices in Abchurch Lane.&nbsp; He had
determined to be absent on this day, and would not be
expected.&nbsp; But his appearance there could not on that account
be taken amiss.&nbsp; Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever
perils, he would face them.&nbsp; He got a cab therefore and had
himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

<p>The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a
holiday.&nbsp; The dinner, the election, and the rumour together
had altogether demoralized them.&nbsp; But some of them at least
were there, and they showed no signs of absolute
insubordination.&nbsp; "Mr Grendall has not been here?" he
asked.&nbsp; No; Mr Grendall had not been there; but Mr Cohenlupe
was in Mr Grendall's room.&nbsp; At this moment he hardly desired
to see Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; That gentleman was privy to many of his
transactions, but was by no means privy to them all.&nbsp; Mr
Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and
knew that it had been mortgaged.&nbsp; He knew also what had become
of the money which had so been raised.&nbsp; But he knew nothing of
the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised
that Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit,
without paying the money.&nbsp; He was afraid that he could hardly
see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to
him without danger.&nbsp; He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a
dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit.&nbsp; But the
clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office
without seeing his old friend.&nbsp; He went therefore into his own
room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so.

<p>"Ve didn't expect you here to-day," said the member for Staines.

<p>"Nor did I expect to come.&nbsp; But there isn't much to do at
Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to
look at the letters.&nbsp; The dinner went off pretty well
yesterday, eh?"

<p>"Uncommon;&mdash;nothing better.&nbsp; Vy did the Lord Mayor stay
away, Melmotte?"

<p>"Because he's an ass and a cur," said Mr Melmotte with an
assumed air of indignation.&nbsp; "Alf and his people had got hold
of him.&nbsp; There was ever so much fuss about it at
first,&mdash;whether he would accept the invitation.&nbsp; I say it was
an insult to the City to take it and not to come.&nbsp; I shall be
even with him some of these days."

<p>"Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?"

<p>"Go on.&nbsp; Of course they'll go.&nbsp; What's to hinder
them?"

<p>"There's ever so much been said," whispered Cohenlupe.

<p>"Said;&mdash;yes," ejaculated Melmotte very loudly.&nbsp; "You're not
such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear.&nbsp;
You'll have enough to believe, if you do."

<p>"There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does
not know," said Cohenlupe.

<p>"Look you here, Cohenlupe,"&mdash;and now Melmotte also sank his
voice to a whisper,&mdash;"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just
as usual, and say nothing.&nbsp; It's all right.&nbsp; There has
been some heavy pulls upon us."

<p>"Oh dear, there has indeed!"

<p>"But any paper with my name to it will come right."

<p>"That's nothing;&mdash;nothing at all," said Cohenlupe.

<p>"And there is nothing;&mdash;nothing at all!&nbsp; I've bought some
property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not
yet paid for it.&nbsp; There's no fraud in that."

<p>"No, no,&mdash;nothing in that."

<p>"You hold your tongue, and go about your business.&nbsp; I'm
going to the bank now."&nbsp; Cohenlupe had been very low in
spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better
after the visit of the great man to the City.

<p>Mr Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the
bank.&nbsp; He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his
business, and one for his private affairs.&nbsp; The one he now
entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic
account.&nbsp; He walked straight through, after his old fashion,
to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the
manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fireplace
just as though nothing had happened,&mdash;or as nearly as though
nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers.&nbsp;
He could not quite do it.&nbsp; In keeping up an appearance
intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than
his wont.&nbsp; The manager did not behave nearly as well as he
did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion.&nbsp;
Melmotte saw that it was so;&mdash;but he had expected it, and had come
there on purpose to "put it down."

<p>"We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"And I didn't expect to see myself here.&nbsp; But it always
happens that when one expects that there's most to be done, there's
nothing to be done at all.&nbsp; They're all at work down at
Westminster, balloting; but as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm
of no use.&nbsp; I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a
stump speech, and if all that they say there is true, I haven't
much to be afraid of."

<p>"And the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager.

<p>"Very well, indeed.&nbsp; They say the Emperor liked it better
than anything that has been done for him yet."&nbsp; This was a
brilliant flash of imagination.&nbsp; "For a friend to dine with me
every day, you know, I should prefer somebody who had a little more
to say for himself.&nbsp; But then, perhaps, you know, if you or I
were in China we shouldn't have much to say for
ourselves;&mdash;eh?"&nbsp; The manager acceded to this
proposition.&nbsp; "We had one awful disappointment.&nbsp; His
lordship from over the way didn't come."

<p>"The Lord Mayor, you mean."

<p>"The Lord Mayor didn't come!&nbsp; He was frightened at the last
moment;&mdash;took it into his head that his authority in the City was
somehow compromised.&nbsp; But the wonder was that the dinner went
on without him."&nbsp; Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his
call there that day.&nbsp; He would have to draw large cheques for
his private wants.&nbsp; "You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of
China for nothing, you know."&nbsp; He had been in the habit of
overdrawing on his private account,&mdash;making arrangements with the
manager.&nbsp; But now, in the manager's presence, he drew a
regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then,
as a sort of afterthought, paid in the &pound;250 which he had
received from Mr Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix had
taken from Marie.

<p>"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager,
when Melmotte had left the room.

<p>"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk.&nbsp; But
the feeling of the room after full discussion inclined to the
opinion that the rumours had been a political manoeuvre.&nbsp;
Nevertheless, Mr Melmotte would not now have been allowed to
overdraw at the present moment.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="64"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXIV.&nbsp; The Election</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mr Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and
there the battle was kept alive all the day.&nbsp; It had been
decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage
should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been
heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon.&nbsp; There
had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that
blast.&nbsp; If there were just ground for the things that had been
said, Mr Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would
be&mdash;wanted.&nbsp; Many had thought that he would escape as soon as
the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that
he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the
following morning.&nbsp; Others had been told that at the last
moment his name would be withdrawn,&mdash;and a question arose as to
whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain
hour on the day before the ballot.&nbsp; An effort was made to
convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would
have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn.&nbsp; When Melmotte was
at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place
with the view of ascertaining the truth.&nbsp; He certainly had
made no attempt at withdrawal.&nbsp; They who propagated this
report certainly damaged Mr Alf's cause.&nbsp; A second reaction
set in, and there grew a feeling that Mr Melmotte was being
ill-used.&nbsp; Those evil things had been said of him,&mdash;many at
least so declared,&mdash;not from any true motive, but simply to secure
Mr Alf's return.&nbsp; Tidings of the speech in Covent Garden were
spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to
the so-called Conservative cause.&nbsp; Mr Alf's friends, hearing
all this, instigated him also to make a speech.&nbsp; Something
should be said, if only that it might be reported in the
newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead
of having injured their enemy by false attacks.&nbsp; Whatever Mr
Alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable
reporter.

<p>About two o'clock in the day, Mr Alf did make a speech,&mdash;and a
very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the "Evening
Pulpit."&nbsp; Mr Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with
all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a
good speech.&nbsp; But in this speech, in which we may presume that
it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought
to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was
the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to
his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted
as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his
ambition to fill.&nbsp; He contented himself with endeavouring to
show that the other man was not fit;&mdash;and that he and his friends,
though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr Melmotte was
about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing
shabby in their manner of doing so.&nbsp; "Mr Melmotte," he said,
"comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths
of his friends,&mdash;for he has not favoured us with many words of his
own,&mdash;that he is supported by the whole Conservative party.&nbsp;
That party is not my party, but I respect it.&nbsp; Where, however,
are these Conservative supporters?&nbsp; We have heard, till we are
sick of it, of the banquet which Mr Melmotte gave yesterday.&nbsp;
I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative
friends could be induced to attend that banquet.&nbsp; It is
equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to
grace the table of this great commercial prince.&nbsp; I say that
the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their
candidate out, have repudiated him;&mdash;and are seeking now to free
themselves from the individual shame of having supported the
candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead
of clustering round the polling booths.&nbsp; Go to Mr Melmotte's
committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be
there.&nbsp; Look about, and see whether they are walking with him
in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking
the air with him in the parks.&nbsp; I respect the leaders of the
Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter,
and they know it."&nbsp; Then he ended by alluding to the rumours
of yesterday.&nbsp; "I scorn," said he, "to say anything against
the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a
position to prove.&nbsp; I make no allusion, and have made no
allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and
which I believe were originated in the City.&nbsp; They may be
false or they may be true.&nbsp; As I know nothing of the matter, I
prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the
same.&nbsp; But I declared to you long before these reports were in
men's mouths, that Mr Melmotte was not entitled by his character to
represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion.&nbsp; A
great British merchant, indeed!&nbsp; How long, do you think,
should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to
him?&nbsp; Who knew aught of this man two years since,&mdash;unless,
indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with
him in some continental city?&nbsp; Ask the character of this great
British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;&mdash;ask those
whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies
of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit
man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!"&nbsp;
There was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which
Mr Alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for
himself.

<p>At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter
was going.&nbsp; It was supposed that the working-classes were in
favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a
great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being
ill-used,&mdash;partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is
felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper
classes.&nbsp; Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount
of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make
things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be
declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a
tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their
seats.&nbsp; Some few years since, the basest calumnies that were
ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men
that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at
men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were
received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves
dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so
many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought
to be due to them.&nbsp; There had not as yet been time for the
formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; But there was a commencement of it.&nbsp; It had
been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber.&nbsp; Whom had he
robbed?&nbsp; Not the poor.&nbsp; There was not a man in London who
caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr
Melmotte.

<p>About three o'clock, the editor of the "Morning Breakfast-Table"
called on Lady Carbury.&nbsp; "What is it all about?" she
asked, as soon as her friend was seated.&nbsp; There had been no
time for him to explain anything at Madame Melmotte's reception,
and Lady Carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of
what was going on.

<p>"I don't know what to make of it," said Mr Broune.&nbsp; "There
is a story abroad that Mr Melmotte has forged some document with
reference to a purchase he made,&mdash;and hanging on to that story are
other stories as to moneys that he has raised.&nbsp; I should say
that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair
trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it."

<p>"Do you believe it?"

<p>"Ah,&mdash;I could answer almost any question sooner than that."

<p>"Then he can't be rich at all."

<p>"Even that would not follow.&nbsp; He has such large concerns in
hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be
possessed of immense wealth.&nbsp; Everybody says that he pays all
his bills."

<p>"Will he be returned?" she asked.

<p>"From what we hear, we think not; I shall know more about it in
an hour or two.&nbsp; At present I should not like to have to
publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against
him.&nbsp; Nobody is doing anything for him.&nbsp; There can be no
doubt that his own party are ashamed of him.&nbsp; As things used
to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election;
but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much.&nbsp; If I were
a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day,
and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in
their voting papers."

<p>"I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"It would not have made much difference.&nbsp; She would have
been brought back all the same.&nbsp; They say Lord Nidderdale
still means to marry her."

<p>"I saw him talking to her last night."

<p>"There must be an immense amount of property somewhere.&nbsp; No
one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago,
and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to
since.&nbsp; The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning,
but they were at &pound;15 premium yesterday morning.&nbsp; He must
have made an enormous deal out of that."&nbsp; But Mr Broune's
eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the
presumption of Mr Alf.&nbsp; "I shouldn't think him such a fool if
he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came
before the world as a candidate for parliament.&nbsp; But a man
must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a
London daily paper at the same time."

<p>"Has it never been done?"

<p>"Never, I think;&mdash;that is, by the editor of such a paper as the
'Pulpit.'&nbsp; How is a man who sits in parliament himself
ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with
impartiality?&nbsp; But Alf believes that he can do more than
anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground.&nbsp; Where's
Felix now?"

<p>"Do not ask me," said the poor mother.

<p>"Is he doing anything?"

<p>"He lies in bed all day, and is out all night."

<p>"But that wants money."&nbsp; She only shook her head.&nbsp;
"You do not give him any?"

<p>"I have none to give."

<p>"I should simply take the key of the house from him,&mdash;or bolt
the door if he will not give it up."

<p>"And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,&mdash;knowing that he
must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in?&nbsp; A
mother cannot do that, Mr Broune.&nbsp; A child has such a hold
upon his mother.&nbsp; When her reason has bade her to condemn him,
her heart will not let her carry out the sentence."&nbsp; Mr Broune
never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus,
he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had
no fear that she would be kissed.&nbsp; The feeling between them
was changed.

<p>Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of
his wife and daughter.&nbsp; Latterly one of the Grendalls had
almost always joined their party when they did not dine out.&nbsp;
Indeed, it was an understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine
there always, unless he explained his absence by some
engagement,&mdash;so that his presence there had come to be considered
as a part of his duty.&nbsp; Not infrequently "Alfred" and Miles
would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wines were good, and
occasionally the father would take the son's place,&mdash;but on this
day they were both absent.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte had not as yet
said a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any
evil.&nbsp; But not a person had called to-day, the day after the
great party,&mdash;and even she, though she was naturally callous in
such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted.&nbsp; She
had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that she
now missed their company.&nbsp; She thought that on this day, of
all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at
Westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work
of the day.&nbsp; "Is not Mr Grendall coming?" she asked, as she
took her seat at the table.

<p>"No, he is not," said Melmotte.

<p>"Nor Lord Alfred?"

<p>"Nor Lord Alfred."&nbsp; Melmotte had returned home much
comforted by the day's proceedings.&nbsp; No one had dared to say a
harsh word to his face.&nbsp; Nothing further had reached his
ears.&nbsp; After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office,
and had written letters,&mdash;just as if nothing had happened; and, as
far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage.&nbsp; One
of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from the west,
and with second editions of the evening papers.&nbsp; The clerk
expressed his opinion that the election was going well.&nbsp; Mr
Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be
on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his
affairs altogether were looking well.&nbsp; The Westminster
election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took
what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon
the other matter.&nbsp; He read Alf's speech, and consoled himself
with thinking that Mr Alf had not dared to make new accusations
against him.&nbsp; All that about Hamburg and Vienna and Paris was
as old as the hills, and availed nothing.&nbsp; His whole
candidature had been carried in the face of that.&nbsp; "I think we
shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk.&nbsp; His very
presence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence.&nbsp; And
thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come
back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and
servants.&nbsp; "Nor Lord Alfred," he said with scorn.&nbsp; Then
he added more.&nbsp; "The father and son are two
d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; curs."&nbsp; This of course
frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the
Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

<p>"Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?" she said afterwards,
creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.

<p>"What do you call wrong?"

<p>"I don't know;&mdash;but I seem to be afraid of something."

<p>"I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by
this time."

<p>"Then there is something."

<p>"Don't be a fool.&nbsp; There is always something.&nbsp; There
is always much.&nbsp; You don't suppose that this kind of thing can
be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with
&pound;400 a year paid quarterly in advance."

<p>"Shall we have to move again?" she asked.

<p>"How am I to tell?&nbsp; You haven't much to do when we move,
and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go.&nbsp; Does
that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?"&nbsp; Madame Melmotte
shook her head.&nbsp; "What a poor creature you must be when you
can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young
Carbury.&nbsp; If she throws me over, I'll throw her over.&nbsp;
I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me.&nbsp;
You tell her that I say so."

<p>"Then he may flog me," said Marie, when so much of the
conversation was repeated to her that evening.&nbsp; "Papa does not
know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by
flogging."&nbsp; No such attempt was at any rate made that night,
for the father and husband did not again see his wife or daughter.

<p>Early the next day a report was current that Mr Alf had been
returned.&nbsp; The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the
books made up;&mdash;but that was the opinion expressed.&nbsp; All the
morning newspapers, including the "Breakfast-Table," repeated this
report,&mdash;but each gave it as the general opinion on the
matter.&nbsp; The truth would not be known till seven or eight
o'clock in the evening.&nbsp; The Conservative papers did not
scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr Alf was owing to a
sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; The "Breakfast-Table," which had supported Mr
Melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on
the result than the other papers.&nbsp; "We know not how such an
opinion forms itself," the writer said,&mdash;"but it seems to have been
formed.&nbsp; As nothing as yet is really known, or can be known,
we express no opinion of our own upon the matter."

<p>Mr Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things
seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves.&nbsp;
The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr Cohenlupe was depressed
in spirits and unhappy;&mdash;but nothing dreadful had occurred or
seemed to be threatened.&nbsp; If nothing dreadful did occur, the
railway shares would probably recover, or nearly recover, their
position.&nbsp; In the course of the day, Melmotte received a
letter from Messrs Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, certainly
contained no comfort;&mdash;but there was comfort to be drawn even from
that letter, by reason of what it did not contain.&nbsp; The letter
was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory.&nbsp; It had come
evidently from a hostile party.&nbsp; It had none of the feeling
which had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two
well-known Conservative gentlemen, Mr Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr
Augustus Melmotte.&nbsp; But there was no allusion in it to
forgery; no question of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught
beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr Longestaffe and Mr
Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which Mr
Melmotte had purchased.

<p>"We have to remind you," said the letter, in continuation of
paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, "that
the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority
to that effect from the Messrs Longestaffe, father and son, on the
understanding that the purchase-money was to be paid to us by
you.&nbsp; We are informed that the property has been since
mortgaged by you.&nbsp; We do not state this as a fact.&nbsp; But
the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the
necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the
purchase-money,&mdash;&pound;80,000,&mdash; or else return to us the
title-deeds of the estate."

<p>This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared
positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority
received by them from both the Longestaffes,&mdash;father and son.&nbsp;
Now the accusation brought against Melmotte, as far as he could as
yet understand it, was that he had forged the signature to the
young Mr Longestaffe's letter.&nbsp; Messrs Slow and Bideawhile
were therefore on his side.&nbsp; As to the simple debt, he cared
little comparatively about that.&nbsp; Many fine men were walking
about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.

<p>As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,&mdash;for both
his wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they
had dined early,&mdash;news was brought to him that he had been elected
for Westminster.&nbsp; He had beaten Mr Alf by something not much
less than a thousand votes.

<p>It was very much to be member for Westminster.&nbsp; So much had
at any rate been achieved by him who had begun the world without a
shilling and without a friend,&mdash;almost without education!&nbsp;
Much as he loved money, and much as he loved the spending of money,
and much as he had made and much as he had spent, no triumph of his
life had been so great to him as this.&nbsp; Brought into the world
in a gutter, without father or mother, with no good thing ever done
for him, he was now a member of the British Parliament, and member
for one of the first cities in the empire.&nbsp; Ignorant as he was
he understood the magnitude of the achievement, and dismayed as he
was as to his present position, still at this moment he enjoyed
keenly a certain amount of elation.&nbsp; Of course he had
committed forgery,&mdash;of course he had committed robbery.&nbsp; That,
indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and
stealing all his life.&nbsp; Of course he was in danger of almost
immediate detection and punishment.&nbsp; He hardly hoped that the
evil day would be very much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed
his triumph.&nbsp; Whatever they might do, quick as they might be,
they could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the House of
Commons.&nbsp; Then if they sent him to penal servitude for life,
they would have to say that they had so treated the member for
Westminster!

<p>He drank a bottle of claret, and then got some
brandy-and-water.&nbsp; In such troubles as were coming upon him
now, he would hardly get sufficient support from wine.&nbsp; He
knew that he had better not drink;&mdash;that is, he had better not
drink, supposing the world to be free to him for his own work and
his own enjoyment.&nbsp; But if the world were no longer free to
him, if he were really coming to penal servitude and
annihilation,&mdash;then why should he not drink while the time
lasted?&nbsp; An hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a
man, if the man's imagination were strong enough so make him so
regard his hour.&nbsp; He therefore took his brandy-and-water
freely, and as he took it he was able to throw his fears behind
him, and to assure himself that, after all, he might even yet
escape from his bondages.&nbsp; No;&mdash;he would drink no more.&nbsp;
This he said to himself as he filled another beaker.&nbsp; He would
work instead.&nbsp; He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and
would yet conquer his enemies.&nbsp; It would not be so easy to
convict a member for Westminster,&mdash;especially if money were spent
freely.&nbsp; Was he not the man who, at his own cost, had
entertained the Emperor of China?&nbsp; Would not that be
remembered in his favour?&nbsp; Would not men be unwilling to
punish the man who had received at his own table all the Princes of
the land, and the Prime Minister, and all the Ministers?&nbsp; To
convict him would be a national disgrace.&nbsp; He fully realized
all this as he lifted the glass to his mouth, and puffed out the
smoke in large volumes through his lips.&nbsp; But money must be
spent!&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;money must be had!&nbsp; Cohenlupe certainly had
money.&nbsp; Though he squeezed it out of the coward's veins he
would have it.&nbsp; At any rate, he would not despair.&nbsp; There
was a fight to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the
end.&nbsp; Then he took a deep drink, and slowly, with careful and
almost solemn steps, be made his way up to his bed.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="65"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXV.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe Writes Home</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that
entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very
little avail, was not in a good humour.&nbsp; Sir Damask, who had
himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in
truth as anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society,
put her ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a
word, and rushed off to his club in disgust.&nbsp; The affair from
beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's
doing.&nbsp; He had been made to work like a slave, and had been
taken against his will to Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor
and shaken hands with no Prince!&nbsp; "They may fight it out
between them now like the Kilkenny cats."&nbsp; That was his idea
as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,&mdash;thinking that if
a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger
remnant would belong to his wife.

<p>"What a horrid affair!" said Lady Monogram.&nbsp; "Did anybody
ever see anything so vulgar?"&nbsp; This was at any rate
unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, Lady
Monogram had seen none of it.

<p>"I don't know why you were so late," said Georgiana.

<p>"Late!&nbsp; Why it's not yet twelve.&nbsp; I don't suppose it
was eleven when we got into the Square.&nbsp; Anywhere else it
would have been early."

<p>"You knew they did not mean to stay long.&nbsp; It was
particularly said so.&nbsp; I really think it was your own fault."

<p>"My own fault.&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;I don't doubt that.&nbsp; I know it
was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with
it.&nbsp; And now I have got to pay for it."

<p>"What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?"

<p>"You know what I mean very well.&nbsp; Is your friend going to
do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?"&nbsp; She could
not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the
price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective
tickets.

<p>"If you mean Mr Brehgert, he is coming.&nbsp; You desired me to
ask him, and I did so."

<p>"Desired you!&nbsp; The truth is, Georgiana, when people get
into different sets, they'd better stay where they are.&nbsp; It's
no good trying to mix things."&nbsp; Lady Monogram was so angry
that she could not control her tongue.

<p>Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with
indignation.&nbsp; That she should have been brought to hear
insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,&mdash;she, the daughter of
Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was
considered to have lived in quite the first London circle!&nbsp;
But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply.&nbsp; She
was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than
weep.&nbsp; But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being
taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend
all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's
guests.&nbsp; "I wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said
at last.&nbsp; "You didn't use to be like that."

<p>"It's no good abusing me," said Lady Monogram.&nbsp; "Here we
are, and I suppose we had better get,&mdash;out unless you want the
carriage to take you anywhere else."&nbsp; Then Lady Monogram got
out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to
her own room.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own
chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and
prepared to write to her mother.

<p>The letter to her mother must be written.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert had
twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr
Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was
there at the present moment.&nbsp; Of course it was proper that Mr
Brehgert should see her father,&mdash;but, as she had told him, she
preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two.&nbsp;
She was now agonized by many doubts.&nbsp; Those few words about
"various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the
very heart,&mdash;as had been intended.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert was
rich.&nbsp; That was a certainty.&nbsp; But she already repented of
what she had done.&nbsp; If it were necessary that she should
really go down into another and a much lower world, a world
composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would
it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house?&nbsp; She
had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of
county position.&nbsp; Caversham had been dull, and there had
always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it
had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home
to be acknowledged before the world.&nbsp; Her mother was dull, and
her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right
set,&mdash;miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,&mdash;until her
father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house
in Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; She would write one letter to-night; but
there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be
written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,&mdash;or to Mr
Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off.&nbsp; I think
she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many
people had already heard of the match.&nbsp; The Monograms knew it,
and had of course talked far and wide.&nbsp; The Melmottes knew it,
and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it.&nbsp; It was
already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end
of the season.&nbsp; Each morning lately she had feared that a
letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some
frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come
to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was
indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a
report.

<p>And there were other troubles.&nbsp; She had just spoken to
Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she
entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her
reception that she was not wanted back again.&nbsp; She had told
her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms
for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and
Mr Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad
that she was leaving the Melmottes.&nbsp; She did not think that
she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr Brehgert desired
it.&nbsp; Since the expression of Mr Brehgert's wishes she had
perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; She must return to Caversham.&nbsp; They could not
refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

<p>If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it
would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to
face.&nbsp; But then if she wrote the letter there would be no
retreat;&mdash;and how should she face her family after such a
declaration?&nbsp; She had always given herself credit for courage,
and now she wondered at her own cowardice.&nbsp; Even Lady
Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon
her.&nbsp; Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to
do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry
considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and
become bugbears to affright her?&nbsp; Who sent her to Melmotte's
house?&nbsp; Was it not her own father?&nbsp; Then she sat herself
square at the table, and wrote to her mother,&mdash;as follows,&mdash;dating
her letter for the following morning:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Hill Street, 9th July, 187&mdash;.<br>
<br>
MY DEAR MAMMA,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am afraid you will be very much
astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed.&nbsp; I have
engaged myself to Mr Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in
the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.&nbsp; I may as
well tell you the worst at once.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert is a Jew.&nbsp;
</i>[This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined
that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the
letter.]&nbsp; <i>He is a very wealthy man, and his business is
about banking and what he calls finance.&nbsp; I understand they
are among the most leading people in the City.&nbsp; He lives at
present at a very handsome house at Fulham.&nbsp; I don't know that
I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up.&nbsp; I have said
nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to
satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements.&nbsp; He has offered to
have a house in London if I like,&mdash;and also to keep the villa at
Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country.&nbsp; Or I
may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country.&nbsp; No
man can be more generous than he is.&nbsp; He has been married
before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I suppose you and papa will be very
much dissatisfied.&nbsp; I hope papa won't refuse his
consent.&nbsp; It can do no good.&nbsp; I am not going to remain as
I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer.&nbsp;
It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so
well placed as Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; Everybody knows that Madame
Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr Melmotte is.&nbsp;
It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to
be upset and at sixes and sevens.&nbsp; If papa has got to be so
poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of
course expect to be different from what we were.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I hope you won't mind having me back
the day after to-morrow,&mdash;that is to-morrow, Wednesday.&nbsp; There
is a party here to-night, and Mr Brehgert is coming.&nbsp; But I
can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I
do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes.&nbsp; I fancy that
there is something wrong between papa and Mr Melmotte.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Send the carriage to meet me by the
2.30 train from London,&mdash;and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see
me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort.&nbsp; Of course it
isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice
again.&nbsp; I shall tell Mr Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.
<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate daughter,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;G.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter
away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no
longer be in her way.

<p>About one o'clock on that day Mr Longestaffe called at Lady
Monogram's.&nbsp; The two ladies had breakfasted upstairs, and had
only just met in the drawing-room when he came in.&nbsp; Georgiana
trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet
heard nothing of Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; She immediately told him that
she proposed returning home on the following day.&nbsp; "I am sick
of the Melmottes," she said.

<p>"And so am I," said Mr Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.

<p>"We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay
with us a little longer," said Lady Monogram; "but we have but the
one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming."&nbsp; Georgiana,
who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she
wouldn't think of such a thing.&nbsp; "We have a few friends
corning to-night, Mr Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see
Georgiana."&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered
something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out
to parties after dinner.&nbsp; "Mr Brehgert will be here,"
continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile.

<p>"Mr who?"&nbsp; The name was not at first familiar to Mr
Longestaffe.

<p>"Mr Brehgert."&nbsp; Lady Monogram looked at her friend.&nbsp;
"I hope I'm not revealing any secret."

<p>"I don't understand anything about it," said Mr
Longestaffe.&nbsp; "Georgiana, who is Mr Brehgert?"&nbsp; He had
understood very much.&nbsp; He had been quite certain from Lady
Monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face,
that Mr Brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover.&nbsp; Lady
Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have
understood her tone.&nbsp; As she said afterwards to Sir Damask,
she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as Georgiana
Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr Longestaffe's knowledge.

<p>"My dear Georgiana," she said, "I supposed your father knew all
about it."

<p>"I know nothing.&nbsp; Georgiana, I hate a mystery.&nbsp; I
insist upon knowing.&nbsp; Who is Mr Brehgert, Lady Monogram?"

<p>"Mr Brehgert is a&mdash;very wealthy gentleman.&nbsp; That is all I
know of him.&nbsp; Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone
with your father."&nbsp; And Lady Monogram left the room.

<p>Was there ever cruelty equal to this!&nbsp; But now the poor
girl was forced to speak,&mdash;though she could not speak as boldly as
she had written.&nbsp; "Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr
Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow."

<p>"Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?"

<p>"Yes, papa."

<p>"What Mr Brehgert is he?"

<p>"He is a merchant."

<p>"You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr Melmotte;&mdash;a
man old enough to be your father!"&nbsp; The poor girl's condition
now was certainly lamentable.&nbsp; The fat Jew, old enough to be
her father, was the very man she did mean.&nbsp; She thought that
she would try to brazen it out with her father.&nbsp; But at the
present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the
subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to
be bold.&nbsp; She only looked at him as though imploring him to
spare her.&nbsp; "Is the man a Jew?" demanded Mr Longestaffe, with
as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice.

<p>"Yes, papa," she said.

<p>"He is that fat man?"

<p>"Yes, papa."

<p>"And nearly as old as I am?"

"No, papa,&mdash;not nearly as old as you are.&nbsp; He is fifty."

<p>"And a Jew?"&nbsp; He again asked the horrid question, and again
threw in the thunder.&nbsp; On this occasion she condescended to
make no further reply.&nbsp; "If you do, you shall do it as an
alien from my house.&nbsp; I certainly will never see him.&nbsp;
Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to
him.&nbsp; You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not
degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister."

<p>"It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes."

<p>"That is not true.&nbsp; I wanted you to stay at
Caversham.&nbsp; A Jew! an old fat Jew!&nbsp; Heavens and earth!
that it should be possible that you should think of it!&nbsp;
You;&mdash; my daughter,&mdash;that used to take such pride in
yourself!&nbsp; Have you written to your mother?"

<p>"I have."

<p>"It will kill her.&nbsp; It will simply kill her.&nbsp; And you
are going home to-morrow?"

<p>"I wrote to say so."

<p>"And there you must remain.&nbsp; I suppose I had better see the
man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible.&nbsp; Heavens
on earth;&mdash;a Jew!&nbsp; An old fat Jew!&nbsp; My daughter!&nbsp; I
will take you down home myself to-morrow.&nbsp; What have I done
that I should be punished by my children in this way?"&nbsp; The
poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that
morning.&nbsp; "You had better leave this house to-day, and come to
my hotel in Jermyn Street."

<p>"Oh, papa, I can't do that."

<p>"Why can't you do it?&nbsp; You can do it, and you shall do
it.&nbsp; I will not have you see him again.&nbsp; I will see
him.&nbsp; If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady
Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr
Brehgert at her house.&nbsp; I do wonder at her.&nbsp; A Jew!&nbsp;
An old fat Jew!"&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe, putting up both his hands,
walked about the room in despair.

<p>She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram
between them would be too strong for her.&nbsp; She had her things
packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be
carried away.&nbsp; She said one word to Lady Monogram before she
went.&nbsp; "Tell him that I was called away suddenly."

<p>"I will, my dear.&nbsp; I thought your papa would not like
it."&nbsp; The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her
friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy.&nbsp; For the
moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything.&nbsp;
She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room
in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day
she was taken down to Caversham.&nbsp; She believed that her father
had seen Mr Brehgert in the morning of that day;&mdash;but he said no
word to her, nor did she ask him any question.

<p>That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party.&nbsp; Early in
the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the
dining-room, Mr Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his
appearance.&nbsp; Lady Monogram received him with a sweet
smile.&nbsp; "Miss Longestaffe," she said, "has left me and gone to
her father."

<p>"Oh, indeed."

<p>"Yes," said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending
to other persons as they arrived.&nbsp; Nor did she condescend to
speak another word to Mr Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her
husband.&nbsp; He stood for about ten minutes inside the
drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed.&nbsp;
No one had spoken a word to him.&nbsp; But he was an even-tempered,
good-humoured man.&nbsp; When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things
would no doubt be different;&mdash;or else she would probably change her
acquaintance.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="66"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXVI.&nbsp; "So Shall Be My Enmity"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle."&nbsp; So
Mrs Hurtle had said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom
she had come to England with the view of marrying.&nbsp; And then
when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers
for the last time, she declined that.&nbsp; "Nay," she had said;
"this parting will bear no farewell."

<p>Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not
return home with very high spirits.&nbsp; Had she insisted on his
taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter
which she intended to write to him,&mdash;that letter which she had
shown him, owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled
passion, and had then destroyed,&mdash;he might at any rate have
consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he might have
behaved, her conduct had been worse than his.&nbsp; He could have
made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have
assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to
escape from the clutches of a wildcat such as that.&nbsp; But at
the last moment she had shown that she was no wild cat to
him.&nbsp; She had melted, and become soft and womanly.&nbsp; In
her softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned
home he was sad and dissatisfied with himself.&nbsp; He had
destroyed her life for her,&mdash;or, at least, had created a miserable
episode in it which could hardly be obliterated.&nbsp; She had said
that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow
him,&mdash;and he had believed her.&nbsp; Was he to do nothing for her
now?&nbsp; She had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had
pardoned him the wrong he had done her.&nbsp; But was that to be
sufficient for him,&mdash;so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied
at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate?&nbsp;
Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been
drunk,&mdash;as the hour that has been enjoyed as the day that is past?

<p>But what could he do?&nbsp; He had made good his own
escape.&nbsp; He had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat,
he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been
right.&nbsp; Her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted
her for such a marriage.&nbsp; Were he to return to her he would be
again thrusting his hand into the fire.&nbsp; But his own selfish
coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing
to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs Pipkin's
lodgings.

<p>During the next three or four days, while the preparations for
the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect
to the American railway.&nbsp; He again went down to Liverpool, and
at Mr Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of
directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for
resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty
of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of
the railway company seem to him to make such a course
desirable.&nbsp; He also wrote a letter to Mr Fisker, begging that
gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire
altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon
receiving the balance of money due to him,&mdash;a payment which must,
he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he
had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of
the railway company in San Francisco.&nbsp; When he wrote these
letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet
sprung up.&nbsp; He returned to London on the day of the festival,
and first heard of the report at the Beargarden.&nbsp; There he
found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up.&nbsp;
Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five
days,&mdash;and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of
which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to
him.&nbsp; "We think that Carbury has drowned himself" said Lord
Grasslough, "and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about
it."&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club.&nbsp;
"He's taken up the running with the girl," said Lord
Grasslough.&nbsp; "What he'll do now, nobody knows.&nbsp; If I was
at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the
church.&nbsp; He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the
girl all the night;&mdash;a sort of thing he never did before.&nbsp;
Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an
ass."&nbsp; Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three
days.&nbsp; "We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't
like," said Lord Grasslough; "and then Melmotte won't let him out
of his sight.&nbsp; He has taken to dine there every day."&nbsp;
This was said during the election,&mdash;on the very day on which Miles
deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the
club.&nbsp; Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have
heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the
secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate
in his silence.&nbsp; Though Grasslough talked openly enough about
Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.

<p>On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed
purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta
alone.&nbsp; "Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said.&nbsp;
"She is writing so much now that she is always going there.&nbsp;
Who has been elected, Mr Montague?"&nbsp; Paul knew nothing about
the election, and cared very little.&nbsp; At that time, however,
the election had not been decided.&nbsp; "I suppose it will make no
difference to you whether your chairman be in Parliament or
not?"&nbsp; Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman of
his.&nbsp; "Are you out of it altogether, Mr Montague?"&nbsp;
Yes;&mdash;as far as it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out
of it.&nbsp; He did not like Mr Melmotte, nor believe in him.&nbsp;
Then with considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with the
Melmotte party, expressing deep regret that circumstances had
driven him for a time into that alliance.&nbsp; "Then you think
that Mr Melmotte is&mdash;?"

<p>"Just a scoundrel;&mdash;that's all."

<p>"You heard about Felix?"

<p>"Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he
tried to run off with her.&nbsp; I don't know much about it.&nbsp;
They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now."

<p>"I think not, Mr Montague."

<p>"I hope not, for his sake.&nbsp; At any rate, your brother is
well out of it."

<p>"Do you know that she loves Felix?&nbsp; There is no pretence
about that.&nbsp; I do think she is good.&nbsp; The other night at
the party she spoke to me."

<p>"You went to the party, then?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take
me.&nbsp; And when I was there she spoke to me about Felix.&nbsp; I
don't think she will marry Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; Poor girl;&mdash;I do
pity her.&nbsp; Think what a downfall it will be if anything
happens."

<p>But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the
intention of discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to
lose the opportunity which chance had given him.&nbsp; He was off
with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the
other.&nbsp; "Hetta," he said, "I am thinking more of myself than
of her,&mdash;or even of Felix."

<p>"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other
people," said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in
his mind to do.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;but I am not thinking of myself only.&nbsp; I am thinking
of myself, and you.&nbsp; In all my thoughts of myself I am
thinking of you too."

<p>"I do not know why you should do that."

<p>"Hetta, you must know that I love you."

<p>"Do you?" she said.&nbsp; Of course she knew it.&nbsp; And of
course she thought that he was equally sure of her love.&nbsp; Had
he chosen to read signs that ought to have been plain enough to
him, could he have doubted her love after the few words that had
been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had come in with Roger
and interrupted them?&nbsp; She could not remember exactly what had
been said; but she did remember that he had spoken of leaving
England for ever in a certain event, and that she had not rebuked
him;&mdash;and she remembered also how she had confessed her own love to
her mother.&nbsp; He, of course, had known nothing of that
confession; but he must have known that he had her heart!

<p>So at least she thought.&nbsp; She had been working some morsel
of lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing
nothing.&nbsp; She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly,
while he was speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall
into her lap.&nbsp; She would have continued to work at the lace
had she been able, but there are times when the eyes will not see
clearly, and when the hands will hardly act mechanically.

<p>"Yes,&mdash;I do.&nbsp; Hetta, say a word to me.&nbsp; Can it be
so?&nbsp; Look at me for one moment so as to let me know."&nbsp;
Her eyes had turned downwards after her work.&nbsp; "If Roger is
dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."

<p>"Roger is very dear to me."

<p>"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"

<p>She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon
her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very
clearly.&nbsp; "No," she said,&mdash;"not like that."

<p>"Can you love me like that?"&nbsp; He put out both his arms as
though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he
longed to hear.&nbsp; She raised her hand towards him, as if to
keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it.&nbsp; "Is it
mine?" he said.

<p>"If you want it."

<p>Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hand, and her
dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears,
ecstatic with joy as though he had really never ventured to hope
for such success.&nbsp; "Want it!" he said.&nbsp; "Hetta, I have
never wanted anything but that with real desire.&nbsp; Oh, Hetta,
my own.&nbsp; Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of
happiness.&nbsp; And now it is my own."

<p>She was very quiet, but full of joy.&nbsp; Now that she had told
him the truth she did not coy her love.&nbsp; Having once spoken
the word she did not care how often she repeated it.&nbsp; She did
not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him,&mdash;even if
he had not been fond of her.&nbsp; As to Roger,&mdash;dear Roger,
dearest Roger,&mdash;no; it was not the same thing.&nbsp; "He is as good
as gold," she said,&mdash;"ever so much better than you are, Paul,"
stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.

<p>"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all
his energy.

<p>"I think he is;&mdash;but, ah, that is not everything.&nbsp; I
suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."

<p>"I do," said he.

<p>"No,&mdash;you don't.&nbsp; You must love me best, but I won't be
called good.&nbsp; I do not know why it has been so.&nbsp; Do you
know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have
me, out of sheer gratitude.&nbsp; I did not know how to refuse such
a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he
wants."

<p>"Where should I have been?"

<p>"Oh, you!&nbsp; Somebody else would have made you happy.&nbsp;
But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one
else.&nbsp; I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so
much of myself.&nbsp; But I feel it.&nbsp; He is not so young a
man, and yet I think that he never was in love before.&nbsp; He
almost told me so once, and what he says is true.&nbsp; There is an
unchanging way with him that is awful to think of.&nbsp; He said
that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have
me,&mdash;and he made me almost believe even that.&nbsp; He speaks as
though every word he says must come true in the end.&nbsp; Oh,
Paul, I love you so dearly,&mdash;but I almost think that I ought to
have obeyed him."&nbsp; Paul Montague of course had very much to
say in answer to this.&nbsp; Among the holy things which did exist
to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest.&nbsp; It
should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of
compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to
no external circumstances.&nbsp; If Fortune had been so kind to him
as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could
have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love.&nbsp; And
though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim
upon her,&mdash;seeing that he had failed to win her heart.&nbsp; It was
very well said,&mdash;at least so Hetta thought,&mdash;and she made no
attempt at argument against him.&nbsp; But what was to be done in
reference to poor Roger?&nbsp; She had spoken the word now, and,
whether for good or bad, she had given herself to Paul
Montague.&nbsp; Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate
to the grave, it could not now be helped.&nbsp; But would it not be
right that it should be told?&nbsp; "Do you know I almost feel that
he is like a father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's
shoulder.

<p>Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he
would himself write to Roger.&nbsp; "Hetta, do you know, I doubt
whether he will ever speak to me again."

<p>"I cannot believe that."

<p>"There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to
understand.&nbsp; He has taught himself to think that as I met you
in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should
not have ventured to love you.&nbsp; How could I have known?"

<p>"That would be unreasonable."

<p>"He is unreasonable&mdash;about that.&nbsp; It is not reason with
him.&nbsp; He always goes by his feelings.&nbsp; Had you been
engaged to him&mdash;"

<p>"Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this."

<p>"But he will never look at it in that way;&mdash;and he will tell me
that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful."

<p>"If you think, Paul&mdash;"

<p>"Nay; listen to me.&nbsp; If it be so I must bear it.&nbsp; It
will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other
sorrow, had that come upon me.&nbsp; I will write to him, and his
answer will be all scorn and wrath.&nbsp; Then you must write to
him afterwards.&nbsp; I think he will forgive you, but he will
never forgive me."&nbsp; Then they parted, she having promised that
she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul
undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

<p>And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the
spirit.&nbsp; Here is his letter:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR ROGER,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I think it right to tell you at once
what has occurred to-day.&nbsp; I have proposed to Miss Carbury and
she has accepted me.&nbsp; You have long known what my feelings
were, and I have also known yours.&nbsp; I have known, too, that
Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer.&nbsp;
Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to
friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself
ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always
shown me.&nbsp; I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never
spoken to her, it must have been the same to you.&nbsp;
</i>[This was hardly a fair representation of what had been
said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the
lady, thought that it had been implied.]<i><br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I should not say so much by way of
excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing
occur there must be a division between us ever after.&nbsp; If I
thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very
unhappy and Hetta would be miserable.&nbsp; Surely, if a man loves
he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance.&nbsp; You
would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained.&nbsp;
Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not
banish us from your heart if you can help it.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate friend,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PAUL MONTAGUE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Roger Carbury did not take a single day,&mdash;or a single hour to
answer the letter.&nbsp; He received it at breakfast, and after
rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he
hurried to his desk and wrote his reply.&nbsp; As he did so, his
whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with
indignation.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There is an old French saying that he
who makes excuses is his own accuser.&nbsp; You would not have
written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and
ungrateful.&nbsp; You knew where my heart was, and there you went
and undermined my treasure, and stole it away.&nbsp; You have
destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You tell me not to banish you both
from my heart.&nbsp; How dare you join yourself with her in
speaking of my feelings!&nbsp; She will never be banished from my
heart.&nbsp; She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is
and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ROGER CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in
those parts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good
Christian.

<p>Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her
return.&nbsp; "Mamma, Mr Paul Montague has been here."

<p>"He always comes here when I am away," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"That has been an accident.&nbsp; He could not have known that
you were going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's."

<p>"I'm not so sure of that, Hetta."

<p>"Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think
you knew till just before you were going.&nbsp; But, mamma, what
does it matter?&nbsp; He has been here, and I have told him&mdash;"

<p>"You have not accepted him?"

<p>"Yes, mamma."

<p>"Without even asking me?"

<p>"Mamma, you knew.&nbsp; I will not marry him without asking
you.&nbsp; How was I not to tell him when he asked me whether
I&mdash;loved him&mdash;"

<p>"Marry him!&nbsp; How is it possible you should marry him?&nbsp;
Whatever he had got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has
gone to the dogs.&nbsp; He is a ruined man, and for aught I know
may be compromised in all Melmotte's wickedness."

<p>"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"

<p>"But I do say it.&nbsp; It is hard upon me.&nbsp; I did think
that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with
Felix.&nbsp; But you are as bad as he is;&mdash;or worse, for you have
not been thrown into temptation like that poor boy!&nbsp; And you
will break your cousin's heart.&nbsp; Poor Roger!&nbsp; I feel for
him;&mdash;he that has been so true to us!&nbsp; But you think nothing
of that."

<p>"I think very much of my cousin Roger."

<p>"And how do you show it;&mdash;or your love for me?&nbsp; There would
have been a home for us all.&nbsp; Now we must starve, I
suppose.&nbsp; Hetta, you have been worse to me even than
Felix."&nbsp; Then Lady Carbury, in her passion, burst out of the
room, and took herself to her own chamber.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="67"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXVII.&nbsp; Sir Felix Protects His Sister</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably
felt but little of the punishment due to his very numerous
shortcomings.&nbsp; He had spent all his fortune; he had lost his
commission in the army; he had incurred the contempt of everybody
that had known him; he had forfeited the friendship of those who
were his natural friends, and had attached to him none others in
their place; he had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister;
but, to use his own language, he had always contrived "to carry on
the game."&nbsp; He had eaten and drunk, had gambled, hunted, and
diverted himself generally after the fashion considered to be
appropriate to young men about town.&nbsp; He had kept up till
now.&nbsp; But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all
things.&nbsp; When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he
counted up all his wealth.&nbsp; He had a few pounds in ready
money, he still had a little roll of Mr Miles Grendall's notes of
hand, amounting perhaps to a couple of hundred pounds,&mdash;and Mr
Melmotte owed him &pound;600.&nbsp; But where was he to turn, and
what was he to do with himself?&nbsp; Gradually he learned the
whole story of the journey to Liverpool,&mdash;how Marie had gone there
and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's money had been
repaid to Mr Melmotte by Mr Broune, and how his failure to make the
journey to Liverpool had become known.&nbsp; He was ashamed to go
to his club.&nbsp; He could not go to Melmotte's house.&nbsp; He
was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day.

<p>He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother.&nbsp; Now that
the brilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether
beyond hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his
comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute
scorn,&mdash;nor was she willing to yield as she had yielded.

<p>One thing only was clear to him.&nbsp; He must realize his
possessions.&nbsp; With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall
and to Melmotte.&nbsp; To the former he said he was going out of
town,&mdash;probably for some time, and he must really ask for a cheque
for the amount due.&nbsp; He went on to remark that he could hardly
suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury was unable to pay debts
of honour to the amount of &pound;200;&mdash;but that if such was the
case he would have no alternative but to apply to the Duke
himself.&nbsp; The reader need hardly be told that to this letter
Mr Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever.&nbsp; In his letter to
Mr Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in
hand.&nbsp; He made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great
man's anger, or to his seat at the board.&nbsp; He simply reminded
Mr Melmotte that there was a sum of &pound;600 still due to him,
and requested that a cheque might be sent to him for that
amount.&nbsp; Melmotte's answer to this was not altogether
unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had
wished.&nbsp; A clerk from Mr Melmotte's office called at the house
in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South
Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum
claimed,&mdash;insisting on a full receipt for the money before he
parted with the scrip.&nbsp; The clerk went on to explain, on
behalf of his employer, that the money had been left in Mr
Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares.&nbsp; Sir
Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took
the scrip.&nbsp; This took place on the day after the balloting at
Westminster, when the result was not yet known,&mdash;and when the
shares in the railway were very low indeed.&nbsp; Sir Felix had
asked as to the value of the shares at the time.&nbsp; The clerk
professed himself unable to quote the price,&mdash;but there were the
shares if Sir Felix liked to take them.&nbsp; Of course he took
them;&mdash;and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps
be worth about half the money due to him.&nbsp; The broker to whom
he showed them could not quite answer for anything.&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;the
scrip had been very high; but there was a panic.&nbsp; They might
recover,&mdash;or, more probably, they might go to nothing.&nbsp; Sir
Felix cursed the Great Financier aloud, and left the scrip for
sale.&nbsp; That was the first time that he had been out of the
house before dark since his little accident.

<p>But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of
amusement.&nbsp; He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not
know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided
for him.&nbsp; He never read.&nbsp; Thinking was altogether beyond
him.&nbsp; And he had never done a day's work in his life.&nbsp; He
could lie in bed.&nbsp; He could eat and drink.&nbsp; He could
smoke and sit idle.&nbsp; He could play cards; and could amuse
himself with women,&mdash;the lower the culture of the women, the better
the amusement.&nbsp; Beyond these things the world had nothing for
him.&nbsp; Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby
Ruggles.

<p>Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's
house.&nbsp; She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that
she would be free to come and go as she pleased.&nbsp; Free to go,
Mrs Pipkin told her that she was;&mdash;but not free to return if she
went out otherwise than as she, Mrs Pipkin, chose.&nbsp; "Am I to
be a slave?" Ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which
she had just dragged in at the hall door.&nbsp; Then Mrs Hurtle had
taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Ruby had been quelled
by the superior strength of the American lady.&nbsp; But she was
very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid to
her aunt.&nbsp; After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a
bit, or he would have come to look after her.&nbsp; While she was
in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs Pipkin's house, and asked
for her at the door, it happened that Mrs Pipkin herself had opened
the door,&mdash;and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so
pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was
in the house.&nbsp; But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had
rushed up and thrown herself into his arms.&nbsp; Then there had
been a great scene.&nbsp; Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for
her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for Mrs Hurtle, or
for John Crumb,&mdash;or for any person or anything.&nbsp; She cared
only for her lover.&nbsp; Then Mrs Hurtle had asked the young man
his intentions.&nbsp; Did he mean to marry Ruby?&nbsp; Sir Felix
had said that he supposed he might as well some day.&nbsp; "There,"
said Ruby, "there!"&mdash;shouting in triumph as though an offer had
been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an
event admits.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin had been very weak.&nbsp; Instead of
calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had
allowed the lovers to remain together for half an hour in the
dining-room.&nbsp; I do not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated
his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably too blessed
with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal.&nbsp;
"There must be an end of this," said Mrs Pipkin, coming in when the
half-hour was over.&nbsp; Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to
come again on the following evening.&nbsp; "You must not come here,
Sir Felix," said Mrs Pipkin, "unless you puts it in writing."&nbsp;
To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer.&nbsp; As he went home
he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure.&nbsp;
Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realized the money
for the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad.&nbsp; The
money would last for three or four months,&mdash;and three or four
months ahead was almost an eternity.

<p>That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the
drawing-room.&nbsp; Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after
hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not
seen Hetta since.&nbsp; Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her
mother's hard words,&mdash;thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as
declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear
themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting
all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been
declared to her.&nbsp; She could not but be happy if he really
loved her.&nbsp; And she,&mdash;as she had told him that she loved
him,&mdash;would be true to him through everything!&nbsp; In her present
mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took
the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had
extracted from her.&nbsp; She gave him some short account of the
party, and told him that she had talked with Marie.&nbsp; "I
promised to give you a message," she said.

<p>"It's all of no use now," said Felix.

<p>"But I must tell you what she said.&nbsp; I think, you know,
that she really loves you."

<p>"But what's the good of it?&nbsp; A man can't marry a girl when
all the policemen in the country are dodging her."

<p>"She wants you to let her know what,&mdash;what you intend to
do.&nbsp; If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."

<p>"How can I tell her?&nbsp; I don't suppose they would let her
receive a letter."

<p>"Shall I write to her;&mdash;or shall I see her?"

<p>"Just as you like.&nbsp; I don't care."

<p>"Felix, you are very heartless."

<p>"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;&mdash;or for the
matter of that, worse than a great many women either.&nbsp; You all
of you here put me up to marry her."

<p>"I never put you up to it."

<p>"Mother did.&nbsp; And now because it did not go off all serene,
I am to hear nothing but reproaches.&nbsp; Of course I never cared
so very much about her."

<p>"Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!"

<p>"Awfully shocking, I dare say.&nbsp; You think I am as black as
the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's
mouths.&nbsp; Other men are just as bad as I am,&mdash;and a good deal
worse too.&nbsp; You believe that there is nobody on earth like
Paul Montague."&nbsp; Hetta blushed, but said nothing.&nbsp; She
was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her
brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men
were as true-hearted as Paul Montague.&nbsp; "I suppose you'd be
surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American
widow living at Islington."

<p>"Mr Montague&mdash;engaged&mdash;to marry&mdash;an American widow!&nbsp; I
don't believe it."

<p>"You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's
true.&nbsp; And it's true too that he travelled about with her for
ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with
him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago.&nbsp; There's
no mistake about it."

<p>"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even
as much as that was some relief to her.&nbsp; It could not be
true.&nbsp; It was impossible that the man should have come to her
with such a lie in his mouth as that.&nbsp; Though the words
astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would
fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe
it.&nbsp; Surely it was some horrid joke,&mdash;or perhaps some trick to
divide her from the man she loved.&nbsp; "Felix, how dare you say
things so wicked as that to me?"

<p>"What is there wicked in it?&nbsp; If you have been fool enough
to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be
told.&nbsp; He is engaged to marry Mrs Hurtle, and she is lodging
with one Mrs Pipkin in Islington.&nbsp; I know the house, and could
take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman.&nbsp; There,"
said he, "that's where she is;"&mdash;and he wrote Mrs Hurtle's name
down on a scrap of paper.

<p>"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing
upright.&nbsp; "I am engaged to Mr Montague, and I am sure he would
not treat me in that way."

<p>"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," said Felix, jumping
up.&nbsp; "If he has done that, it is time that I should
interfere.&nbsp; As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a
woman called Mrs Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in
Islington."

<p>"I do not believe it," said Hetta, repeating the only defence
for her lover which was applicable at the moment.

<p>"By George, this is beyond a joke.&nbsp; Will you believe it if
Roger Carbury says it's true?&nbsp; I know you'd believe anything
fast enough against me, if he told you."

<p>"Roger Carbury will not say so?"

<p>"Have you the courage to ask him?&nbsp; I say he will say
so.&nbsp; He knows all about it,&mdash;and has seen the woman."

<p>"How can you know?&nbsp; Has Roger told you?"

<p>"I do know, and that's enough.&nbsp; I will make this square
with Master Paul.&nbsp; By heaven, yes!&nbsp; He shall answer to
me.&nbsp; But my mother must manage you.&nbsp; She will not scruple
to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her."

<p>"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the
room.&nbsp; But when she was alone she was very wretched.&nbsp;
There must be some foundation for such a tale.&nbsp; Why should
Felix have referred to Roger Carbury?&nbsp; And she did feel that
there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to
reject the whole story as being altogether baseless.&nbsp; So she
sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had
heard of faithless lovers.&nbsp; And yet why should the man have
come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand
in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily
communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his
wife?

<p>Nothing on the subject was said at dinner.&nbsp; Hetta with
difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak.&nbsp;
Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent.&nbsp; Soon after
dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest
probably of some other Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; Then Lady Carbury, who
had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her
daughter.&nbsp; Very much of the story Felix had learned from
Ruby.&nbsp; Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs
Hurtle.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs
Pipkin, and Mrs Pipkin had been proud of the position of her
lodger.&nbsp; Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and
had known that he had taken Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft.&nbsp; And it
had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece,
that Mrs Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at
Lowestoft.&nbsp; Thus the whole story with most of its
details,&mdash;not quite with all,&mdash;had come round to Lady Carbury's
ears.&nbsp; "What he has told you, my dear, is true.&nbsp; Much as
I disapprove of Mr Montague, you do not suppose that I would
deceive you."

<p>"How can he know, mamma?"

<p>"He does know.&nbsp; I cannot explain to you how.&nbsp; He has
been at the same house."

<p>"Has he seen her?"

<p>"I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen
her.&nbsp; If I write to him you will believe what he says?"

<p>"Don't do that, mamma.&nbsp; Don't write to him."

<p>"But I shall.&nbsp; Why should I not write if he can tell
me?&nbsp; If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect
you?&nbsp; Of course Felix is not steady.&nbsp; If it came only
from him you might not credit it.&nbsp; And he has not seen
her.&nbsp; If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,&mdash;tells
me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I
suppose you will be contented."

<p>"Contented, mamma!"

<p>"Satisfied that what we tell you is true."

<p>"I shall never be contented again.&nbsp; If that is true, I will
never believe anything.&nbsp; It can't be true.&nbsp; I suppose
there is something, but it can't be that."

<p>The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though
it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered.&nbsp;
But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law,
and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might
succeed.&nbsp; On that very night before she went to bed she wrote
to Roger, and told him the whole story.&nbsp; "If," she said, "you
know that there is such a person as Mrs Hurtle, and if you know
also that Mr Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course
you will tell me."&nbsp; Then she declared her own wishes, thinking
that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real
assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be
driven away.&nbsp; Who could feel so much interest in doing this as
Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances
of Montague's life?&nbsp; "You know," she said, "what my wishes are
about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr Montague's
interference.&nbsp; If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the
present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross
insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely
protect us,&mdash;and also yourself."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="68"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXVIII.&nbsp; Miss Melmotte Declares Her Purpose</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Poor Hetta passed a very bad night.&nbsp; The story she had
heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,&mdash;even about any one
else.&nbsp; The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his
wife,&mdash;and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily
intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry!&nbsp;
And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so
soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!&nbsp; Though he had
been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he
regarded her!&nbsp; The whole state of his mind had, she had
thought, been visible to her,&mdash;had been intelligible, gentle, and
affectionate.&nbsp; He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and
had therefore hesitated.&nbsp; He had kept himself from her because
he had owed so much to friendship.&nbsp; And yet his love had not
been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta.&nbsp;
She had waited, sure that it would come,&mdash;having absolute
confidence in his honour and love.&nbsp; And now she was told that
this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so
foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible
cause for it.&nbsp; It was not like any story she had heard before
of man's faithlessness.&nbsp; Though she was wretched and sore at
heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it.&nbsp; She
knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,&mdash;but she knew
also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the
answer should come.&nbsp; Nor could she turn anywhere else for
comfort.&nbsp; She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself.&nbsp; As
regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance,
which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a
word of the story that had been told her.

<p>But there was other wretchedness besides her own.&nbsp; She had
undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother.&nbsp;
She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's
reply.&nbsp; That might be told in a very few words&mdash;"Everything is
over!"&nbsp; But it had to be told.

<p>"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said
to her mother at breakfast.

<p>"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte?&nbsp; I thought you
hated the Melmottes?"

<p>"I don't hate them, mamma.&nbsp; I certainly don't hate
her.&nbsp; I have a message to take to her,&mdash;from Felix."

<p>"A message&mdash;from Felix."

<p>"It is an answer from him.&nbsp; She wanted to know if all that
was over.&nbsp; Of course it is over.&nbsp; Whether he said so or
not, it would be so.&nbsp; They could never be married now, could
they, mamma?"

<p>The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even
desirable.&nbsp; She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the
Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would
come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the
daughter.&nbsp; It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such
offence as had now been committed.&nbsp; "It is out of the
question," she said.&nbsp; "That, like everything else with us, has
been a wretched failure.&nbsp; You can go, if you please.&nbsp;
Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from
them.&nbsp; I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody
to take her now.&nbsp; You can't go alone, you know," Lady Carbury
added.&nbsp; But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going
alone as far as that.&nbsp; It was only just over Oxford Street.

<p>So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square.&nbsp;
She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary
migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street.&nbsp; Seeing, as she
approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and
workmen, she hesitated.&nbsp; But she went on, and rang the bell at
the door, which was wide open.&nbsp; Within the hall the pilasters
and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days
since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled
down and hauled away.&nbsp; And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself
was standing.&nbsp; He was now a member of Parliament, and was to
take his place that night in the House.&nbsp; Nothing, at any rate,
should prevent that.&nbsp; It might be but for a short time;&mdash;but
it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in
the British House of Commons as member for Westminster.&nbsp; At
the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere.&nbsp;
It was now noon, and he had already been into the City.&nbsp; At
this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,&mdash;having
just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been
made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had
entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of
money.&nbsp; Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss
Melmotte was there.&nbsp; "Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte
coming forward, and just touching his hat.&nbsp; "She is not living
here at present."

<p>"Oh,&mdash;I remember now," said Hetta.

<p>"May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?"&nbsp;
At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious
about his daughter.

<p>"I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.

<p>"Oh, indeed;&mdash;Miss Carbury!&mdash;the sister of Sir Felix
Carbury?"&nbsp; There was something in the tone of the man's voice
which grated painfully on Hetta's ears,&mdash;but she answered the
question.&nbsp; "Oh;&mdash;Sir Felix's sister!&nbsp; May I be permitted
to ask whether&mdash;you have any business with my daughter?"&nbsp; The
story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in
the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man
looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply.&nbsp; She
had come with a message from her brother.&nbsp; There had been
something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother
had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it
must be all over.&nbsp; "I wonder whether that is true," said
Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his
eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his
pockets.&nbsp; Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate
the suspicion expressed, was silent.&nbsp; "Because, you know,
there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing.&nbsp; Sir
Felix has behaved infamously; yes,&mdash;by
G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;, infamously.&nbsp; A day or two
before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the
whole thing was over, and now he sends you here.&nbsp; How am I to
know what you are really after?"

<p>"I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said,
trembling with anger and fear.&nbsp; "I was speaking to your
daughter at your party."

<p>"Oh, you were there;&mdash;were you?&nbsp; It may be as you say, but
how is one to tell?&nbsp; When one has been deceived like that, one
is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury."&nbsp; Here was one who had
spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart
shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him!&nbsp; "You
are not plotting another journey to Liverpool;&mdash;are you?"&nbsp; To
this Hetta could make no answer.&nbsp; The insult was too much, but
alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for
scorn.&nbsp; At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton
Street himself and at his bidding she walked by his side.&nbsp;
"May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.

<p>"If you suspect me, Mr Melmotte, I had better not see her at
all.&nbsp; It is only that there may no longer be any doubt."

<p>"You can say it all before me."

<p>"No;&mdash;I could not do that.&nbsp; But I have told you, and you
can say it for me.&nbsp; If you please, I think I will go home
now."

<p>But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on
such a subject.&nbsp; This girl she probably would believe.&nbsp;
And though Melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he
thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected
from the proposed interview.&nbsp; "Oh, you shall see her," he
said.&nbsp; "I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind
of thing again."&nbsp; Then the door in Bruton Street was opened,
and Hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into
the hall.&nbsp; She was bidden to follow Melmotte upstairs, and was
left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long
time.&nbsp; Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into
the room.&nbsp; "Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of
you,&mdash;so good of you!&nbsp; I do so love you for coming to
me!&nbsp; You said you would love me.&nbsp; You will; will you
not?" and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and
encircled her waist.

<p>"Mr Melmotte has told you why I have come."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;that is, I don't know.&nbsp; I never believe what papa
says to me."&nbsp; To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was
horrible.&nbsp; "We are at daggers drawn.&nbsp; He thinks I ought
to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my
own.&nbsp; I won't agree to that;&mdash;would you?"&nbsp; Hetta had not
come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember
at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an
affair of the same kind.&nbsp; "What does he say, dear?"

<p>Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when
those were told, there was nothing more to be said.&nbsp; "It must
all be over, Miss Melmotte."

<p>"Is that his message, Miss Carbury?"&nbsp; Hetta nodded her
head.&nbsp; "Is that all?"

<p>"What more can I say?&nbsp; The other night you told me to bid
him send you word.&nbsp; And I thought he ought to do so.&nbsp; I
gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer.&nbsp; My
brother, you know, has no income of his own;&mdash;nothing at all."

<p>"But I have," said Marie with eagerness.

<p>"But your father&mdash;"

<p>"It does not depend upon papa.&nbsp; If papa treats me badly, I
can give it to my husband.&nbsp; I know I can.&nbsp; If I can
venture, cannot he?"

<p>"I think it is impossible."

<p>"Impossible!&nbsp; Nothing should be impossible.&nbsp; All the
people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never
find anything impossible.&nbsp; Does he love me, Miss
Carbury?&nbsp; It all depends on that.&nbsp; That's what I want to
know."&nbsp; She paused, but Hetta could not answer the
question.&nbsp; "You must know about your brother.&nbsp; Don't you
know whether he does love me?&nbsp; If you know I think you ought
to tell me."&nbsp; Hetta was still silent.&nbsp; "Have you nothing
to say?"

<p>"Miss Melmotte-" began poor Hetta very slowly.

<p>"Call me Marie.&nbsp; You said you would love me, did you
not?&nbsp; I don't even know what your name is."

<p>"My name is Hetta."

<p>"Hetta;&mdash;that's short for something.&nbsp; But it's very
pretty.&nbsp; I have no brother, no sister.&nbsp; And I'll tell
you, though you must not tell anybody again;&mdash;I have no real
mother.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses
that it should be thought so."&nbsp; All this she whispered, with
rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear.&nbsp; "And papa is so cruel
to me!&nbsp; He beats me sometimes."&nbsp; The new friend, round
whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this.&nbsp;
"But I never will yield a bit for that.&nbsp; When he boxes and
thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him.&nbsp; Can you
wonder that I want to have a friend?&nbsp; Can you be surprised
that I should be always thinking of my lover?&nbsp; But,&mdash;if he
doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"

<p>"I don't know what I am to say," ejaculated Hetta amidst her
sobs.&nbsp; Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be
avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's
heart was melted with sympathy.

<p>"I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you,"
said Marie.&nbsp; Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her
own affairs, and made no reply to this.&nbsp; "I suppose you won't
tell me about yourself."

<p>"I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort."

<p>"He will not try again, you think?"

<p>"I am sure he will not."

<p>"I wonder what he fears.&nbsp; I should fear
nothing,&mdash;nothing.&nbsp; Why should not we walk out of the house,
and be married any way?&nbsp; Nobody has a right to stop me.&nbsp;
Papa could only turn me out of his house.&nbsp; I will venture if
he will."

<p>It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition
amounted to falsehood,&mdash;to that guilt of which Mr Melmotte had
dared to suppose that she could be capable.&nbsp; "I cannot listen
to it.&nbsp; Indeed I cannot listen to it.&nbsp; My brother is sure
that he cannot&mdash;cannot&mdash;"

<p>"Cannot love me, Hetta!&nbsp; Say it out, if it is true."

<p>"It is true," said Hetta.&nbsp; There came over the face of the
other girl a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the
moment to throw away from her all soft womanly things.&nbsp; And
she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist.&nbsp; "Oh, my dear, I do not
mean to be cruel, but you ask me for the truth."

<p>"Yes; I did."

<p>"Men are not, I think, like girls."

<p>"I suppose not," said Marie slowly.&nbsp; "What liars they are,
what brutes;&mdash;what wretches!&nbsp; Why should he tell me lies like
that?&nbsp; Why should he break my heart?&nbsp; That other man
never said that he loved me.&nbsp; Did he never love me,&mdash;once?"

<p>Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such
love as Marie expected, but she knew that it was so.&nbsp; "It is
better that you should think of him no more."

<p>"Are you like that?&nbsp; If you had loved a man and told him of
it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to
be told to think of him no more,&mdash;just as though you had got rid of
a servant or a horse?&nbsp; I won't love him.&nbsp; No;&mdash;I'll hate
him.&nbsp; But I must think of him.&nbsp; I'll marry that other man
to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be
broken-hearted."

<p>"You should try to forgive him, Marie."

<p>"Never.&nbsp; Do not tell him that I forgive him.&nbsp; I
command you not to tell him that.&nbsp; Tell him,&mdash;tell him, that I
hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that
he shall never forget it.&nbsp; I could,&mdash;oh!&mdash;you do not know what
I could do.&nbsp; Tell me;&mdash;did he tell you to say that he did not
love me?"

<p>"I wish I had not come," said Hetta.

<p>"I am glad you have come.&nbsp; It was very kind.&nbsp; I don't
hate you.&nbsp; Of course I ought to know.&nbsp; But did he say
that I was to be told that he did not love me?"

<p>"No;&mdash;he did not say that."

<p>"Then how do you know?&nbsp; What did he say?"

<p>"That it was all over."

<p>"Because he is afraid of papa.&nbsp; Are you sure he does not
love me?"

<p>"I am sure."

<p>"Then he is a brute.&nbsp; Tell him that I say that he is a
false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot."&nbsp;
Marie as she said this thrust her foot upon the ground as though
that false one were in truth beneath it,&mdash;and spoke aloud, as
though regardless who might hear her.&nbsp; "I despise
him;&mdash;despise him.&nbsp; They are all bad, but he is the worst of
all.&nbsp; Papa beats me, but I can bear that.&nbsp; Mamma reviles
me and I can bear that.&nbsp; He might have beaten me and reviled
me, and I could have borne it.&nbsp; But to think that he was a
liar all the time;&mdash;that I can't bear."&nbsp; Then she burst into
tears.&nbsp; Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her
sobbing on the sofa.

<p>Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had
gone, Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked
into Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose.&nbsp;
"You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he
pleases."&nbsp; She spoke in French and very rapidly.

<p>On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be
delighted.&nbsp; "Your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear
that you have thought better of this at last.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale
is, I am sure, a very good young man."

<p>"Yes," continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she
spoke.&nbsp; "I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr
Grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a
father,&mdash;or the sweeper at the crossing,&mdash;or the black man that
waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up.&nbsp; I
don't care who it is the least in the world.&nbsp; But I'll lead
him such a life afterwards!&nbsp; I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent
the hour he saw me!&nbsp; You may tell papa."&nbsp; And then,
having thus entrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left
the room.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="69"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXIX.&nbsp; Melmotte in Parliament</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that
day,&mdash;good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to
him, it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with
which Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte.&nbsp;
It was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage,&mdash;if
the marriage could now be brought about.&nbsp; He, too, had cause
for vexation, if not for anger.&nbsp; If Marie had consented a
fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs that Lord
Nidderdale might by this time have been secured.&nbsp; Now there
might be,&mdash;must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the
villainy of Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Were he once the father-in-law
of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be
safe.&nbsp; Even though something might be all but proved against
him,&mdash;which might come to certain proof in less august
circumstances,&mdash;matters would hardly be pressed against a Member
for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the
Marquis of Auld Reekie!&nbsp; So many persons would then be
concerned!&nbsp; Of course his vexation with Marie had been
great.&nbsp; Of course his wrath against Sir Felix was
unbounded.&nbsp; The seat for Westminster was his.&nbsp; He was to
be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day.&nbsp;
But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in
reference to Lord Nidderdale.

<p>There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the
manner in which Melmotte should take his seat.&nbsp; When he was
put forward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good
deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading
politicians.&nbsp; It had been the manifest intention of the party
that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great
Conservative triumph, and be made much of through the length and
the breadth of the land.&nbsp; He was returned,&mdash;but the trumpets
had not as yet been sounded loudly.&nbsp; On a sudden, within the
space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their
man.&nbsp; And, now, who was to introduce him to the House?&nbsp;
But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already
springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become
as it were a Conservative tribune of the people,&mdash;that he might be
the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and
old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master,
whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can
only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand
still.&nbsp; The new farthing newspaper, "The Mob," was already
putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with
reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that
magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain
irregularities.&nbsp; A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes
in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a
young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few
negroes.&nbsp; "The Mob" thought that a good deal should be
overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great
designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins.&nbsp; I do
not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was
done by the ingenious and courageous writer in "The Mob"; but in
practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds.

<p>Mr Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been
before that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the
purchase of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than
on the unfortunate night of the great banquet.&nbsp; He had replied
to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note
written in the ordinary way in the office, and only signed by
himself.&nbsp; In this he merely said that he would lose no time in
settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering.&nbsp; Slow and
Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be
settled.&nbsp; They wanted no prosecution for forgery.&nbsp; To
make themselves clear in the matter, and their client,&mdash;and if
possible to take some wind out of the sails of the odious
Squercum;&mdash;this would suit them best.&nbsp; They were prone to hope
that for his own sake Melmotte would raise the money.&nbsp; If it
were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to
have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their
office.&nbsp; They still protested their belief that it did bear
Dolly's signature.&nbsp; They had various excuses for
themselves.&nbsp; It would have been useless for them to summon
Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that Dolly
would not come.&nbsp; The very letter written by themselves,&mdash;as a
suggestion,&mdash;and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them
with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,&mdash;as they
believed,&mdash;with other papers by Dolly's father.&nbsp; What
justification could be clearer?&nbsp; But still the money had not
been paid.&nbsp; That was the fault of Longestaffe senior.&nbsp;
But if the money could be paid, that would set everything
right.&nbsp; Squercum evidently thought that the money would not be
paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's
people.&nbsp; He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered
up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note
with a forged signature.&nbsp; He demanded that the note should be
impounded.&nbsp; On the receipt by Mr Bideawhile of Melmotte's
rather curt reply Mr Squercum was informed that Mr Melmotte had
promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be
allowed.&nbsp; Mr Squercum replied that on his client's behalf he
should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.

<p>But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal
of the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain
degree recovered his position.&nbsp; The Beauclerks and the Luptons
disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite
dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had
been.&nbsp; It was pretty well known that Mr Longestaffe had not
received his money,&mdash;and that was a condition of things tending
greatly to shake the credit of a man living after Melmotte's
fashion.&nbsp; But there was no crime in that.&nbsp; No forgery was
implied by the publication of any statement to that effect.&nbsp;
The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been very
foolish.&nbsp; Whoever expected anything but folly from
either?&nbsp; And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss
in their duty.&nbsp; It was astonishing, some people said, what
things attorneys would do in these days!&nbsp; But they who had
expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this,
and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they
had been deceived.

<p>Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would
have become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to
express to Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his
new political ally to the House.&nbsp; In such case Melmotte
himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable
ovation and the thing would have been done without trouble to
him.&nbsp; But now this was not the position of affairs.&nbsp;
Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, no such popular
Conservative offered his services.&nbsp; "I don't think we ought to
throw him over," Mr Beauclerk said.&nbsp; Sir Orlando Drought,
quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was
very intimate with Mr Melmotte he might do it.&nbsp; But Nidderdale
was not the man for such a performance.&nbsp; He was a very good
fellow and everybody liked him.&nbsp; He belonged to the House
because his father had territorial influence in a Scotch
county;&mdash;but he never did anything there, and his selection for
such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else
would do it.&nbsp; "It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton," said Mr
Beauclerk.&nbsp; "Not at all," said Lupton; "but I also, like
Nidderdale am a young man and of no use,&mdash;and a great deal too
bashful."&nbsp; Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down
to the House at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of
companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be
stopped by no phantom fears,&mdash;that he would lose nothing by want of
personal pluck.&nbsp; He knew that he was a Member, and concluded
that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in
and assume his right.&nbsp; But here again fortune befriended
him.&nbsp; The very leader of the party, the very founder of that
new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an
apostle and an expounder,&mdash;who, as the reader may remember, had
undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were
dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there
almost in solitude,&mdash;he happened to be entering the House, as his
late host was claiming from the doorkeeper the fruition of his
privilege.&nbsp; "You had better let me accompany you," said the
Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart.&nbsp;
And so Mr Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his
party!&nbsp; When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours
had been proved to be altogether false.&nbsp; Was not this a
guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

<p>Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of
Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred.&nbsp; The old
man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner
party.&nbsp; He was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a
marriage with Melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been
said of Melmotte should be proved to be true.&nbsp; But he knew
also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the
match altogether;&mdash;and he did not believe the rumours.&nbsp; He was
fully determined that the money should be paid down before the
marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede now, of
course no money would be forthcoming.&nbsp; He was prepared to
recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little
longer.&nbsp; "Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,"
said the father.&nbsp; Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises
of Auld Reekie.

<p>"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir," said
the son.

<p>"What's that to us if he has our money ready?&nbsp; I suppose it
isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of
hundred thousand together.&nbsp; I know I've never found it easy to
get a thousand.&nbsp; If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe
to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain.&nbsp; You stand to
your guns.&nbsp; There's no harm done till the parson has said the
word."

<p>"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;&mdash;could you, sir?"
suggested the son.

<p>"No, I couldn't," replied the father with a very determined
aspect.

<p>"I'm awfully hard up."

<p>"So am I."&nbsp; Then the old man toddled into his own chamber,
and after sitting there ten minutes went away home.

<p>Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties
and went to the Beargarden.&nbsp; There he found Grasslough and
Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next
table.&nbsp; They were full of news.&nbsp; "You've heard it, I
suppose," said Miles in an awful whisper.

<p>"Heard what?"

<p>"I believe he doesn't know!" said Lord Grasslough.&nbsp; "By
Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others."

<p>"What's up now?"

<p>"Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the
House!&nbsp; Vossner has bolted!"

<p>"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he
was just going to eat his soup.

<p>"Bolted," repeated Grasslough.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale looked
round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay
which hung upon the features of all the dining members.&nbsp;
"Bolted, by George!&nbsp; He has sold all our acceptances to a
fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called 'Flatfleece'."

<p>"I know him," said Nidderdale shaking his head.

<p>"I should think so," said Miles ruefully.

<p>"A bottle of champagne!" said Nidderdale, appealing to the
waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance
in this new trouble that had befallen him.&nbsp; The waiter, beaten
almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the
club, whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not
a bottle of champagne in the house.&nbsp; "Good
G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;," exclaimed the unfortunate
nobleman.&nbsp; Miles Grendall shook his head.&nbsp; Grasslough
shook his head.

<p>"It's true," said another young lord from the table on the other
side.&nbsp; Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and
melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left.&nbsp; It
was now the middle of July.

<p>"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale.&nbsp; There had been a few
bottles of brandy, but they had been already consumed.&nbsp; "Send
out and get some brandy," said Nidderdale with rapid
impetuosity.&nbsp; But the club was so reduced in circumstances
that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he
could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded.

<p>Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was
known.&nbsp; Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on
the preceding evening.&nbsp; The head waiter had known for some
weeks that heavy bills were due.&nbsp; It was supposed that three
or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen, who now professed
that the credit had been given, not to Herr Vossner but to the
club.&nbsp; And the numerous acceptances for large sums which the
accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been
sold to Mr Flatfleece.&nbsp; Mr Flatfleece had spent a considerable
portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he
and Herr Vossner were in partnership.&nbsp; At this moment Dolly
Longestaffe came in.&nbsp; Dolly had been at the club before and
had heard the story,&mdash;but had gone at once to another club for his
dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be
had.&nbsp; "Here's a go," said Dolly.&nbsp; "One thing atop of
another!&nbsp; There'll be nothing left for anybody soon.&nbsp; Is
that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale?&nbsp; There was none here
when I left."

<p>"Had to send round the corner for it, to the public."

<p>"We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things
now.&nbsp; Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?"

<p>"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale.&nbsp;
"He's all right I think."

<p>"I wish he'd pay me my money then.&nbsp; That fellow Flatfleece
was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about
&pound;1,500!&nbsp; I write such a beastly hand that I never know
whether I've written it or not.&nbsp; But, by George, a fellow
can't eat and drink &pound;1,500 in less than six months!"

<p>"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly," said Lord
Grasslough.

<p>"He's paid some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.

<p>"I don't think he ever did.&nbsp; Carbury had a lot of my
I.O.U.'s while that was going on, but I got the money for that from
old Melmotte.&nbsp; How is a fellow to know?&nbsp; If any fellow
writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it?&nbsp; Everybody is
writing my name!&nbsp; How is any fellow to stand that kind of
thing?&nbsp; Do you think Melmotte's all right?"&nbsp; Nidderdale
said that he did think so.&nbsp; "I wish he wouldn't go and write
my name then.&nbsp; That's a sort of thing that a man should be
left to do for himself.&nbsp; I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but,
by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner."&nbsp; With that he turned on
his heels and went into the smoking-room.&nbsp; And, after he was
gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord
Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.

<p>In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the
House of Commons.&nbsp; Melmotte had been seated on one of the back
Conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time
unnoticed and forgotten.&nbsp; The little emotion that had attended
his entrance had passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any
one else.&nbsp; At first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as
he observed that the majority of members were covered, he put it on
again.&nbsp; Then he sat motionless for an hour, looking round him
and wondering.&nbsp; He had never hitherto been even in the gallery
of the House.&nbsp; The place was very much smaller than he had
thought, and much less tremendous.&nbsp; The Speaker did not strike
him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that
they who spoke were talking much like other people in other
places.&nbsp; For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a
sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so.&nbsp; One man got
up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their
legs to say the few words that they uttered.&nbsp; It seemed to him
to be a very commonplace affair,&mdash;not half so awful as those
festive occasions on which he had occasionally been called upon to
propose a toast or to return thanks.&nbsp; Then suddenly the manner
of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long
speech.&nbsp; Melmotte by this time, weary of observing, had begun
to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his
ears.&nbsp; The gentleman was proposing some little addition to a
commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the
ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to
use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was
levied.&nbsp; Melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing
about gloves, and very little about England's ruin.&nbsp; But in
the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the
value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings
into francs and dollars.&nbsp; About this Melmotte really did know
something and he pricked up his ears.&nbsp; It seemed to him that a
gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,&mdash;and who had
maliciously stayed away from his dinner,&mdash;one Mr Brown, who sat
just before him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding
wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own,
understood nothing at all of what he was saying.&nbsp; Here was an
opportunity for himself!&nbsp; Here was at his hand the means of
revenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the
world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city
enemies!&nbsp; It required some courage certainly,&mdash;this attempt
that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of
hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life.&nbsp; But
he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching
himself.&nbsp; Nothing should cow him.&nbsp; Whatever was to be
done by brazen-faced audacity he would do.&nbsp; It seemed to be
very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool
right.&nbsp; He knew nothing of the forms of the House;&mdash;was more
ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy;&mdash;but on that very
account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary
novice.&nbsp; Mr Brown was tedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though
he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he
would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr Brown
sat down.&nbsp; There did not seem to be any particular end to the
speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of
argument.&nbsp; But a statement had been made and repeated,
containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance;
and he longed to set the matter right.&nbsp; At any rate he desired
to show the House that Mr Brown did not know what he was talking
about,&mdash;because Mr Brown had not come to his dinner.&nbsp; When Mr
Brown was seated, nobody at once rose.&nbsp; The subject was not
popular, and they who understood the business of the House were
well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or
three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be
allowed to ventilate them.&nbsp; The subject would have
dropped;&mdash;but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.

<p>Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman
there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three
hours of his first entry into the House.&nbsp; And this gentleman
was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar
kind.&nbsp; It had been considered by many of his supporters that
his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that
he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were
elected; and again by another party that his appearance in
Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls
of Newgate.&nbsp; But here he was, not only in his seat, but on his
legs!&nbsp; The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention,
which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was
extended also to Melmotte.&nbsp; There was an excitement in the
thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum,
almost of approbation.

<p>As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found
that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a
good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends.&nbsp; The
House, which, to his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr
Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful.&nbsp;
He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him,&mdash;of men who had not
seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few
minutes before, yawning beneath their hats.&nbsp; Mr Brown, poor as
his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it,&mdash;and had perhaps
made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen
years.&nbsp; Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words
together.&nbsp; He had thought, as far as he had thought at all,
that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it
when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board.&nbsp; But
there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and
the mace,&mdash;and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of
statesmen opposite to him!&nbsp; His position was felt by him to be
dreadful.&nbsp; He had forgotten even the very point on which he
had intended to crush Mr Brown.

<p>But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be
altogether quelled at once.&nbsp; The hum was prolonged; and though
he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was
determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which
would occur to him.&nbsp; "Mr Brown is all wrong," he said.&nbsp;
He had not even taken off his hat as he rose.&nbsp; Mr Brown turned
slowly round and looked up at him.&nbsp; Some one, whom he could
not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should
take off his hat.&nbsp; There was a cry of order, which of course
he did not understand.&nbsp; "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, nodding
his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr Brown.

<p>"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most
good-natured voice which he could assume, "is not perhaps as yet
aware that he should not call another member by his name.&nbsp; He
should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable
member for Whitechapel.&nbsp; And in speaking he should address,
not another honourable member, but the chair."

<p>"You should take your hat off," said the good-natured gentleman
behind.

<p>In such a position how should any man understand so many and
such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time
remember the gist of the argument to be produced?&nbsp; He did take
off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by
doing so.&nbsp; "What he said was all wrong," continued Melmotte;
"and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr Brown,
ought to have known better."&nbsp; Then there were repeated calls
of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of
the House.&nbsp; The man stood for a while glaring around him,
summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr Brown,
determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the
ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with
the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to
carry on the combat.&nbsp; "I ought to know something about it,"
said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame
under his hat.

<p>"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does
understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we
shall be very glad to hear his remarks.&nbsp; The House I am sure
will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member."

<p>But Mr Melmotte would not rise again.&nbsp; He had made a great
effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage.&nbsp; Though
they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they
would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show
himself.&nbsp; He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made
for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he
could assume.

<p>"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm
in the lobby.

<p>"I don't see any pluck in it.&nbsp; That old fool Brown didn't
know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so.&nbsp;
They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it.&nbsp; It
seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place."

<p>"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe opening his
black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.

<p>"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money
either," said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; "do you leave Mr
Longestaffe and his money to me.&nbsp; I hope you are not such a
fool as to be scared by what the other fools say.&nbsp; When men
play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know
better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken."

<p>"Oh, dear; yes," said Cohenlupe apologetically.&nbsp; "You don't
suppose that I am afraid of anything."&nbsp; But at that moment Mr
Cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores
of England, and was trying to remember what happy country still was
left in which an order from the British police would have no power
to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as
himself.

<p>That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now
willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;&mdash;but she did not say anything as
to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to
Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="70"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXX.&nbsp; Sir Felix Meddles with Many Matters</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that
which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage;
but, at the same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more
difficult, and we may say generally more indistinct.&nbsp; The
ill-usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one
which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance,&mdash;although
the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged.&nbsp;
We are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of
another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom
successful.&nbsp; A John Crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of
the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, even if the Sir
Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage.&nbsp; There is a
feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,&mdash;thrown over, perhaps,
is the proper term,&mdash;after the gentleman has had the fun of making
love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed
privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the
better.&nbsp; The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of
the false one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three
months.&nbsp; It is her purpose again to

<blockquote>
<i>
        &mdash;trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore<br>
        Flame in the forehead of the morning sky.
</i>
</blockquote>

<p>Though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three
before, still the road to success is open.&nbsp; <i>Uno avulso non
deficit alter</i>.&nbsp; But if all the notoriety of cudgels and
cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the
difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased.&nbsp;
The brother recognizes his duty, and prepares for vengeance.&nbsp;
The injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her
own little battles alone.

<p>"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," Sir Felix had said
very grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to
a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another
woman.&nbsp; Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity
at any rate for threats.&nbsp; No money was required and no
immediate action,&mdash;and Sir Felix could act the fine gentleman and
the dictatorial brother at very little present expense.&nbsp; But
Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly,
was fool enough to believe him.&nbsp; On the day but one following,
no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury,&mdash;nor could as yet
have come.&nbsp; But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she
remembered her brother's threat.&nbsp; Felix had forgotten that he
had made a threat,&mdash;and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter
since his interview with his sister.

<p>"Felix," she said, "you won't mention that to Mr Montague!"

<p>"Mention what?&nbsp; Oh! about that woman, Mrs Hurtle?&nbsp;
Indeed I shall.&nbsp; A man who does that kind of thing ought to be
crushed;&mdash;and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be
crushed."

<p>"I want to tell you, Felix.&nbsp; If it is so, I will see him no
more."

<p>"If it is so!&nbsp; I tell you I know it."

<p>"Mamma has written to Roger.&nbsp; At least I feel sure she
has."

<p>"What has she written to him for?&nbsp; What has Roger Carbury
to do with our affairs?"

<p>"Only you said he knew!&nbsp; If he says so, that is, if you and
he both say that he is to marry that woman,&mdash;I will not see Mr
Montague again.&nbsp; Pray do not go to him.&nbsp; If such a
misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be
silent.&nbsp; What good can be done?"

<p>"Leave that to me," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with
much fraternal bluster.&nbsp; Then he went forth, and at once had
himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings.&nbsp; Had Hetta not
been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now
have undertaken the task.&nbsp; He too, no doubt, remembered as he
went that duels were things of the past, and that even fists and
sticks are considered to be out of fashion.&nbsp; "Montague," he
said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour that his late sorrows
had left to him, "I believe I am right in saying that you are
engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your
life.&nbsp; What business have you with Mrs Hurtle?"

<p>"When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of
business," said Sir Felix.

<p>"Well;&mdash;yes; I admit that fully.&nbsp; If I answered you
roughly, I beg your pardon.&nbsp; Now as to the facts.&nbsp; I am
not going to marry Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; I suppose I know how you have
heard her name;&mdash;but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in
telling you so much.&nbsp; As you know where she is to be found you
can go and ask her if you please.&nbsp; On the other hand, it is
the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister.&nbsp; I trust
that will be enough for you."

<p>"You were engaged to Mrs Hurtle?"

<p>"My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the
details of my past life.&nbsp; At any rate, I don't feel inclined
to do so in answer to hostile questions.&nbsp; I dare say you have
heard enough of Mrs Hurtle to justify you, as your sister's
brother, in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a
connection with her.&nbsp; I tell you that I am not.&nbsp; If you
still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself.&nbsp; Beyond that, I
do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go,&mdash;at
any rate, at present."&nbsp; Sir Felix still blustered, and made
what capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took
no steps towards positive revenge.&nbsp; "Of course, Carbury," said
the other, "I wish to regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to
you, it is only because you are rough to me."

<p>Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been
accustomed to haunt,&mdash;for the first time since his
misadventure,&mdash;and, plucking up his courage, resolved that he would
turn into the Beargarden.&nbsp; He would have a glass of sherry,
and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this
way gradually creep back to his old habits.&nbsp; But when he
arrived there, the club was shut up.&nbsp; "What the deuce is
Vossner about?" said he, pulling out his watch.&nbsp; It was nearly
five o'clock.&nbsp; He rang the bell, and knocked at the door,
feeling that this was an occasion for courage.&nbsp; One of the
servants, in what we may call private clothes, after some delay,
drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news;&mdash;The club
was shut up!&nbsp; "Do you mean to say I can't come in?" said Sir
Felix.&nbsp; The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he
opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrow
aperture.&nbsp; Mr Vossner had gone away.&nbsp; There had been a
meeting of the Committee, and the club was shut up.&nbsp; Whatever
further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to
communicate to Sir Felix Carbury.

<p>"By George!"&nbsp; The wrong that was done him filled the young
baronet's bosom with indignation.&nbsp; He had intended, he assured
himself, to dine at his club, to spend the evening there
sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions.&nbsp; And
now the club was shut up, and Vossner had gone away!&nbsp; What
business had the club to be shut up?&nbsp; What right had Vossner
to go away?&nbsp; Had he not paid his subscription in
advance?&nbsp; Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the
more indignant is he at wrong done to him.&nbsp; Sir Felix almost
thought that he could recover damages from the whole Committee.

<p>He went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house.&nbsp; When he made that
half promise of marriage in Mrs Pipkin's hearing, he had said that
he would come again on the morrow.&nbsp; This he had not done; but
of that he thought nothing.&nbsp; Such breaches of faith, when
committed by a young man in his position, require not even an
apology.&nbsp; He was admitted by Ruby herself who was of course
delighted to see him.&nbsp; "Who do you think is in town?" she
said.&nbsp; "John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I
wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go
away."&nbsp; Sir Felix, when he heard the name, felt an
uncomfortable sensation creep over him.&nbsp; "I don't know I'm
sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain
as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again."

<p>"He's not of much account," said the baronet.

<p>"He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him,"
continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover
should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account.&nbsp;
"And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all
that.&nbsp; And they do say he's ever so much money in the
bank.&nbsp; But I detest him," said Ruby, shaking her pretty head,
and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder.

<p>This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs Pipkin had
ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic
bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world.&nbsp;
"Well, now, Sir Felix," she began, "if things is square, of course
you're welcome to see my niece."

<p>"And what if they're round, Mrs Pipkin?" said the gallant,
careless, sparkling Lothario.

<p>"Well, or round either, so long as they're honest."

<p>"Ruby and I are both honest;&mdash;ain't we, Ruby?&nbsp; I want to
take her out to dinner, Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; She shall be back before
late;&mdash;before ten; she shall indeed."&nbsp; Ruby inclined herself
still more closely towards his shoulder.&nbsp; "Come, Ruby, get
your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off.&nbsp; I've ever
so many things to tell you."

<p>Ever so many things to tell her!&nbsp; They must be to fix a day
for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and
to settle what dress she should wear,&mdash;and perhaps to give her the
money to go and buy it!&nbsp; Ever so many things to tell
her!&nbsp; She looked up into Mrs Pipkin's face with imploring
eyes.&nbsp; Surely on such an occasion as this an aunt would not
expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a slave.&nbsp; "Have
it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?" demanded Mrs Pipkin
with cruel gravity.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had given it as her decided
opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Ruggles
unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of
a written contract.

<p>"Writing be bothered," said Sir Felix.

<p>"That's all very well, Sir Felix.&nbsp; Writing do bother, very
often.&nbsp; But when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing
shows it plainer nor words.&nbsp; Ruby don't go nowhere to dine
unless you puts it into writing."

<p>"Aunt Pipkin!" exclaimed the wretched Ruby.

<p>"What do you think I'm going to do with her?" asked Sir Felix.

<p>"If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing.&nbsp; And
if it be as you don't, just say so, and walk away,&mdash;free."

<p>"I shall go," said Ruby.&nbsp; "I'm not going to be kept here a
prisoner for any one.&nbsp; I can go when I please.&nbsp; You wait,
Felix, and I'll be down in a minute."&nbsp; The girl, with a nimble
spring, ran upstairs, and began to change her dress without giving
herself a moment for thought.

<p>"She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix," said Mrs Pipkin,
in her most solemn tones.&nbsp; "She ain't nothing to me, no more
than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child.&nbsp; There
ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace.&nbsp; But I'd
be loth to see her on the streets."

<p>"Then why won't you let me bring her back again?"

<p>"'Cause that'd be the way to send her there.&nbsp; You don't
mean to marry her."&nbsp; To this Sir Felix said nothing.&nbsp;
"You're not thinking of that.&nbsp; It's just a bit of sport,&mdash;and
then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be
swept into the dust-bin.&nbsp; I've seen scores of 'em, and I'd
sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to
death.&nbsp; But it's all nothing to the likes o' you."

<p>"I haven't done her any harm," said Sir Felix, almost
frightened.

<p>"Then go away, and don't do her any.&nbsp; That's Mrs Hurtle's
door open.&nbsp; You go and speak to her.&nbsp; She can talk a deal
better nor me."

<p>"Mrs Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very
well."

<p>"Mrs Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has
seen the world."&nbsp; As she spoke, Mrs Hurtle came downstairs,
and an introduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between
her and Sir Felix.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix
Carbury, and was quite as certain as Mrs Pipkin that he did not
mean to marry Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; In a few minutes Felix found
himself alone with Mrs Hurtle in her own room.&nbsp; He had been
anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement with
Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of Paul's
engagement with his sister.&nbsp; It was not an hour since Paul
himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own
statement.

<p>"Sir Felix Carbury," she said, "I am afraid you are doing that
poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none."&nbsp; It did
occur to him very strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs
Hurtle's, and that he, as a man of position in society, was being
interfered with in an unjustifiable manner.&nbsp; Aunt Pipkin
wasn't even an aunt; but who was Mrs Hurtle?&nbsp; "Would it not be
better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is
really fond of her?"

<p>He could already see something in Mrs Hurtle's eye which
prevented his at once bursting into wrath;&mdash;but! who was Mrs
Hurtle, that she should interfere with him?&nbsp; "Upon my word,
ma'am," he said, "I'm very much obliged to you, but I don't quite
know to what I owe the honour of your&mdash;your&mdash;"

<p>"Interference you mean."

<p>"I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it."

<p>"I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made," said Mrs
Hurtle with energy.&nbsp; "We're all apt to wait a little too long,
because we're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our
way.&nbsp; You must go and leave her, Sir Felix."

<p>"I suppose she may do as she pleases about that."

<p>"Do you mean to make her your wife?" asked Mrs Hurtle sternly.

<p>"Does Mr Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?" rejoined Sir
Felix with an impudent swagger.&nbsp; He had struck the blow
certainly hard enough, and it had gone all the way home.&nbsp; She
had not surmised that he would have heard aught of her own
concerns.&nbsp; She only barely connected him with that Roger
Carbury who, she knew, was Paul's great friend, and she had as yet
never heard that Hetta Carbury was the girl whom Paul loved.&nbsp;
Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp should know all
her story?

<p>She thought awhile,&mdash;she had to think for a moment,&mdash;before she
could answer him.&nbsp; "I do not see," she said, with a faint
attempt at a smile, "that there is any parallel between the two
cases.&nbsp; I, at any rate, am old enough to take care of
myself.&nbsp; Should he not marry me, I am as I was before.&nbsp;
Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken
about the town by you at night?"&nbsp; She had desired in what she
said to protect Ruby rather than herself.&nbsp; What could it
matter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was, or
that she was not, about to be married?

<p>"If you'll answer me, I'll answer you," said Sir Felix.&nbsp;
"Does Mr Montague mean to make you his wife?"

<p>"It does not concern you to know," said she, flashing upon
him.&nbsp; "The question is insolent."

<p>"It does concern me,&mdash;a great deal more than anything about Ruby
can concern you.&nbsp; And as you won't answer me, I won't answer
you."

<p>"Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head."

<p>"I know all about that," said the baronet.

<p>"And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably
know where to find you," added Mrs Hurtle.

<p>To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix
left the room.&nbsp; At any rate, John Crumb was not there at
present.&nbsp; And were there not policemen in London?&nbsp; And
what additional harm would be done to John Crumb, or what increase
of danger engendered in that true lover's breast, by one additional
evening's amusement?&nbsp; Ruby had danced with him so often at the
Music Hall that John Crumb could hardly be made more bellicose by
the fact of her dining with him on this evening.&nbsp; When he
descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed.&nbsp; "You don't
come in here again to-night," said Mrs Pipkin, thumping the little
table which stood in the passage, "if you goes out of that there
door with that there young man."

<p>"Then I shall," said Ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm.

<p>"Baggage!&nbsp; Slut!" said Mrs Pipkin; "after all I've done for
you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood."

<p>"I've worked for it, I suppose;&mdash;haven't I?" rejoined Ruby.

<p>"You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here
no more.&nbsp; You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other
girl.&nbsp; But I'd 've saved you, if you'd but a' let me.&nbsp; As
for you,"&mdash;and she looked at Sir Felix,&mdash;"only because I've
lodgings to let, and because of the lady upstairs, I'd shake you
that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls."&nbsp; I
do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance from Mrs
Hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution.

<p>Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs Pipkin and her
lodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm.&nbsp; For the moment,
Ruby had been triumphant, and was happy.&nbsp; She did not stop to
consider whether her aunt would or would not open her door when she
should return tired, and perhaps repentant.&nbsp; She was on her
lover's arm, in her best clothes, and going out to have a dinner
given to her.&nbsp; And her lover had told her that he had ever so
many things,&mdash;ever so many things to say to her!&nbsp; But she
would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her
bliss.&nbsp; It was so pleasant to walk with him up to
Pentonville;&mdash;so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half
public-house and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the
good things, which in his company would be so nice!&nbsp; Who
cannot understand that even an urban Rosherville must be an Elysium
to those who have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom
of a small London underground kitchen?&nbsp; There we will leave
Ruby in her bliss.

<p>At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs Pipkin's,
and was told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp;
He hit his leg a blow with his fist, and glared out of his
eyes.&nbsp; "He'll have it hot some day," said John Crumb.&nbsp; He
was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby till midnight, and then,
with a sorrowful heart, he took his departure.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="71"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXI.&nbsp; John Crumb Falls into Trouble</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It was on a Friday evening, an inauspicious Friday, that poor
Ruby Ruggles had insisted on leaving the security of her Aunt
Pipkin's house with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of
the positive assurance made to her by Mrs Pipkin that if she went
forth in such company she should not be allowed to return.&nbsp;
"Of course you must let her in," Mrs Hurtle had said soon after the
girl's departure.&nbsp; Whereupon Mrs Pipkin had cried.&nbsp; She
knew her own softness too well to suppose it to be possible that
she could keep the girl out in the streets all night; but yet it
was hard upon her, very hard, that she should be so troubled.&nbsp;
"We usen't to have our ways like that when I was young," she said,
sobbing.&nbsp; What was to be the end of it?&nbsp; Was she to be
forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let the
girl's conduct be what it might?&nbsp; Nevertheless she
acknowledged that Ruby must be let in when she came back.&nbsp;
Then, about nine o'clock, John Crumb came; and the latter part of
the evening was more melancholy even than the first.&nbsp; It was
impossible to conceal the truth from John Crumb.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle
saw the poor man and told the story in Mrs Pipkin's presence.

<p>"She's headstrong, Mr Crumb," said Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"She is that, ma'am.&nbsp; And it was along wi' the baronite she
went?"

<p>"It was so, Mr Crumb."

<p>"Baro-nite!&nbsp; Well;&mdash;perhaps I shall catch him some of these
days;&mdash;went to dinner wi' him, did she?&nbsp; Didn't she have no
dinner here?"

<p>Then Mrs Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence.&nbsp;
Ruby Ruggles had had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in
London,&mdash;a bullock's heart and potatoes,&mdash;just as much as ever she
had pleased to eat of it.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin could tell Mr Crumb that
there was "no starvation nor yet no stint in her house."&nbsp; John
Crumb immediately produced a very thick and admirably useful blue
cloth cloak, which he had brought up with him to London from
Bungay, as a present to the woman who had been good to his
Ruby.&nbsp; He assured her that he did not doubt that her victuals
were good and plentiful, and went on to say that he had made bold
to bring her a trifle out of respect.&nbsp; It was some little time
before Mrs Pipkin would allow herself to be appeased;&mdash;but at last
she permitted the garment to be placed on her shoulders.&nbsp; But
it was done after a melancholy fashion.&nbsp; There was no smiling
consciousness of the bestowal of joy on the countenance of the
donor as he gave it, no exuberance of thanks from the recipient as
she received it.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle, standing by, declared it to be
perfect;&mdash;but the occasion was one which admitted of no
delight.&nbsp; "It's very good of you, Mr Crumb, to think of an old
woman like me,&mdash;particularly when you've such a deal of trouble
with a young un'."

<p>"It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs Pipkin, or the d'sease in
the 'tatoes;&mdash;it has to be put up with, I suppose.&nbsp; Is she
very partial, ma'am, to that young baronite?"&nbsp; This question
was asked of Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"Just a fancy for the time, Mr Crumb," said the lady.

<p>"They never thinks as how their fancies may wellnigh half kill a
man!"&nbsp; Then he was silent for a while, sitting back in his
chair, not moving a limb, with his eyes fastened on Mrs Pipkin's
ceiling.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had some work in her hand, and sat
watching him.&nbsp; The man was to her an extraordinary being,&mdash;so
constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlike her own
countrymen,&mdash;willing to endure so much, and at the same time so
warm in his affections!&nbsp; "Sir Felix Carbury!" he said.&nbsp;
"I'll Sir Felix him some of these days.&nbsp; If it was only
dinner, wouldn't she be back afore this, ma'am?"

<p>"I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement," said Mrs
Hurtle.

<p>"Like enough," said John Crumb in a low voice.

<p>"She's that mad after dancing as never was," said Mrs Pipkin.

<p>"And where is it as 'em dances?" asked Crumb, getting up from
his chair, and stretching himself.&nbsp; It was evident to both the
ladies that he was beginning to think that he would follow Ruby to
the music hall.&nbsp; Neither of them answered him, however, and
then he sat down again.&nbsp; "Does 'em dance all night at them
places, Mrs Pipkin?"

<p>"They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do," said Mrs
Pipkin.&nbsp; John Crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down
heavily on the palm of his other hand, and then sat silent for
awhile.

<p>"I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing," he said.&nbsp; "I'd
a had dancing for her down at Bungay,&mdash;just as ready as
anything.&nbsp; D'ye think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or
the baro-nite?"&nbsp; This was another appeal to Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"I suppose they go together," said the lady.

<p>Then there was another long pause, at the end of which poor John
Crumb burst out with some violence.&nbsp; "Domn him!&nbsp; Domn
him!&nbsp; What 'ad I ever dun to him?&nbsp; Nothing!&nbsp; Did I
ever interfere wi' him?&nbsp; Never!&nbsp; But I wull.&nbsp; I
wull.&nbsp; I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Bury!"

<p>"Oh, Mr Crumb, don't talk like that," said Mrs Pipkin.

<p>"Mr Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it
presently," said Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"She's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's
treating you," said Mrs Pipkin.

<p>"No, ma'am;&mdash;she ain't nasty," said the lover.&nbsp; "But she's
crou'll&mdash;horrid crou'll.&nbsp; It's no more use my going down about
meal and pollard, nor business, and she up here with that
baro-nite,&mdash;no, no more nor nothin'! When I handles it I don't know
whether its middlings nor nothin' else.&nbsp; If I was to twist his
neck, ma'am, would you take it on yourself to say as I was wrong?"

<p>"I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him,"
said Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"I could pretty well eat him,&mdash;that's what I could.&nbsp; Half
past eleven; is it?&nbsp; She must come some time, mustn't
she?"&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin, who did not want to burn candles all night
long, declared that she could give no assurance on that head.&nbsp;
If Ruby did come, she should, on that night, be admitted.&nbsp; But
Mrs Pipkin thought that it would be better to get up and let her in
than to sit up for her.&nbsp; Poor Mr Crumb did not at once take
the hint, and remained there for another half-hour, saying little,
but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come.&nbsp; But when the
clock struck twelve he was told that he must go.&nbsp; Then he
slowly collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house.

<p>"That young man is a good fellow," said Mrs Hurtle as soon as
the door was closed.

<p>"A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles," said Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; "And
he can maintain a wife.&nbsp; Mr Carbury says as he's as well to do
as any tradesman down in them parts."

<p>Mrs Hurtle disliked the name of Mr Carbury, and took this last
statement as no evidence in John Crumb's favour.&nbsp; "I don't
know that I think better of the man for having Mr Carbury's
friendship," she said.

<p>"Mr Carbury ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"I don't think much of any of the Carburys, Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; It
seems to me that everybody here is either too humble or too
overbearing.&nbsp; Nobody seems content to stand firm on his own
footing and interfere with nobody else."&nbsp; This was all Greek
to poor Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; "I suppose we may as well go to bed
now.&nbsp; When that girl comes and knocks, of course we must let
her in.&nbsp; If I hear her, I'll go down and open the door for
her."

<p>Mrs Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the
condition of her household.&nbsp; She would remain up herself to
answer the door at the first sound, so that Mrs Hurtle should not
be disturbed.&nbsp; She would do her best to prevent any further
annoyance.&nbsp; She trusted Mrs Hurtle would see that she was
endeavouring to do her duty by the naughty wicked girl.&nbsp; And
then she came round to the point of her discourse.&nbsp; She hoped
that Mrs Hurtle would not be induced to quit the rooms by these
disagreeable occurrences.&nbsp; "I don't mind saying it now, Mrs
Hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me.&nbsp; I ain't
nothing to depend on,&mdash;only lodgers, and them as is any good is so
hard to get!"&nbsp; The poor woman hardly understood Mrs Hurtle,
who, as a lodger, was certainly peculiar.&nbsp; She cared nothing
for disturbances, and rather liked than otherwise the task of
endeavouring to assist in the salvation of Ruby.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle
begged that Mrs Pipkin would go to bed.&nbsp; She would not be in
the least annoyed by the knocking.&nbsp; Another half-hour had thus
been passed by the two ladies in the parlour after Crumb's
departure.&nbsp; Then Mrs Hurtle took her candle and had ascended
the stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud double
knock was heard.&nbsp; She immediately joined Mrs Pipkin in the
passage.&nbsp; The door was opened, and there stood Ruby Ruggles,
John Crumb, and two policemen!&nbsp; Ruby rushed in, and casting
herself on to one of the stairs began to throw her hands about, and
to howl piteously.&nbsp; "Laws a mercy; what is it?" asked Mrs
Pipkin.

<p>"He's been and murdered him!" screamed Ruby.&nbsp; "He
has!&nbsp; He's been and murdered him!"

<p>"This young woman is living here;&mdash;is she?" asked one of the
policemen.

<p>"She is living here," said Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; But now we must go
back to the adventures of John Crumb after he had left the house.

<p>He had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern
Counties Railway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when
business brought him up to London, and thither he proposed to
himself to return.&nbsp; At one time there had come upon him an
idea that he would endeavour to seek Ruby and his enemy among the
dancing saloons of the metropolis; and he had asked a question with
that view.&nbsp; But no answer had been given which seemed to aid
him in his project, and his purpose had been abandoned as being too
complex and requiring more intelligence than he gave himself credit
for possessing.&nbsp; So he had turned down a street with which he
was so far acquainted as to know that it would take him to the
Islington Angel,&mdash;where various roads meet, and whence he would
know his way eastwards.&nbsp; He had just passed the Angel, and the
end of Goswell Road, and was standing with his mouth open, looking
about, trying to make certain of himself that he would not go
wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he saw, and
hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know his
business.&nbsp; Then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and
knew that it was Ruby's voice.&nbsp; The sound was very near him,
but in the glimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it
came.&nbsp; He stood still, putting his hand up to scratch his head
under his hat,&mdash;trying to think what, in such an emergency, it
would be well that he should do.&nbsp; Then he heard the voice
distinctly, "I won't;&mdash;I won't," and after that a scream.&nbsp;
Then there were further words.&nbsp; "It's no good&mdash;I won't."&nbsp;
At last he was able to make up his mind.&nbsp; He rushed after the
sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led back into
Goswell Road, saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms.&nbsp; She had
left the dancing establishment with her lover; and when they had
come to the turn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to
her further destiny for the night.&nbsp; Ruby, though she well
remembered Mrs Pipkin's threats, was minded to try her chance at
her aunt's door.&nbsp; Sir Felix was of opinion that he could make
a preferable arrangement for her; and as Ruby was not at once
amenable to his arguments he had thought that a little gentle force
might avail him.&nbsp; He had therefore dragged Ruby into the
passage.&nbsp; The unfortunate one!&nbsp; That so ill a chance
should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion!&nbsp; He
had swallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was
therefore brave with reference to that interference of the police,
the fear of which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish
his hold of Ruby's arm when she first raised her voice.&nbsp; But
what amount of brandy and water would have enabled him to
persevere, could he have dreamed that John Crumb was near
him?&nbsp; On a sudden he found a hand on his coat, and he was
swung violently away, and brought with his back against the
railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of
his body.&nbsp; But he could hear Ruby's exclamation, "If it isn't
John Crumb!"&nbsp; Then there came upon him a sense of coming
destruction, as though the world for him were all over; and,
collapsing throughout his limbs, he slunk down upon the ground.

<p>"Get up, you wiper," said John Crumb.&nbsp; But the baronet
thought it better to cling to the ground.&nbsp; "You sholl get up,"
said John, taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting
him.&nbsp; "Now, Ruby, he's a-going to have it," said John.&nbsp;
Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice, with a shriek very
much louder than that which had at first attracted John Crumb's
notice.

<p>"Don't hit a man when he's down," said the baronet, pleading as
though for his life.

<p>"I wunt," said John;&mdash;"but I'll hit a fellow when un's
up."&nbsp; Sir Felix was little more than a child in the man's
arms.&nbsp; John Crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck
with his left arm,&mdash;getting his head into chancery as we used to
say when we fought at school,&mdash;struck the poor wretch some
half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing or caring
exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a
feature.&nbsp; And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at
him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms.&nbsp; "He's about got
enough of it," said John Crumb as he gave over his work.&nbsp; Then
Sir Felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully.&nbsp; "I
know'd he'd have to have it," said John Crumb.

<p>Ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from
each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same
time.&nbsp; And now the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the
complaints which she made to the policemen said not a word against
Sir Felix, but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her
denunciations of John Crumb.&nbsp; It was in vain that John
endeavoured to make the man understand that the young woman had
been crying out for protection when he had interfered.&nbsp; Ruby
was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow.&nbsp; Ruby
swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever
been done before.&nbsp; Sir Felix himself when appealed to could
say nothing.&nbsp; He could only moan and make futile efforts to
wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him
up leaning against the railings.&nbsp; And John, though he
endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the extent of the
wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word against
Ruby.&nbsp; He was not even in the least angered by her
denunciations of himself.&nbsp; As he himself said sometimes
afterwards, he had "dropped into the baronite" just in time, and,
having been successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for
having made such an operation necessary.

<p>There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other
persons, cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and
houseless wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year
preferred the pavements to the poorhouse wards.&nbsp; They all took
part against John Crumb.&nbsp; Why had the big man interfered
between the young woman and her young man?&nbsp; Two or three of
them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed his eyes, and proposed this
and the other remedy.&nbsp; Some thought that he had better be
taken straight to an hospital.&nbsp; One lady remarked that he was
so mashed and mauled that she was sure he would never "come to"
again.&nbsp; A precocious youth remarked that he was "all one as a
dead un'."&nbsp; A cabman observed that he had "'ad it awful
'eavy."&nbsp; To all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix
himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be
carried away somewhere, though he did not much care whither.

<p>At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of
action.&nbsp; They had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and
Crumb that Sir Felix was Sir Felix.&nbsp; He was to be carried in a
cab by one constable to Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take
his address so that he might be produced and bound over to
prosecute.&nbsp; Ruby should be even conducted to the address she
gave,&mdash;not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood,&mdash;and
be left there or not according to the account which might be given
of her.&nbsp; John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the
station-house.&nbsp; He was the offender;&mdash;for aught that any of
them yet knew, the murderer.&nbsp; No one said a good word for
him.&nbsp; He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly
made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for
him.&nbsp; But, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the
conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.

<p>Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and
Ruby came together to Mrs Pipkin's door.&nbsp; Ruby was still loud
with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover,&mdash;who,
perhaps, had killed her loved one.&nbsp; She threatened the
gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action
for damages amidst her lamentations.&nbsp; But from Mrs Hurtle the
policemen did manage to learn something of the truth.&nbsp; Oh
yes;&mdash;the girl lived there and was&mdash;respectable.&nbsp; This man
whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl's
proper lover.&nbsp; The other man who had been beaten was
undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and
was only the girl's improper lover.&nbsp; And John Crumb's name was
given.&nbsp; "I'm John Crumb of Bungay," said he, "and I ain't
afeared of nothin' nor nobody.&nbsp; And I ain't a been a drinking;
no, I ain't.&nbsp; Mauled un'!&nbsp; In course I've mauled
un'.&nbsp; And I meaned it.&nbsp; That ere young woman is engaged
to be my wife."

<p>"No, I ain't," shouted Ruby.

<p>"But she is," persisted John Crumb.

<p>"Well then, I never will," rejoined Ruby.

<p>John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on
his heart.&nbsp; Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at
a glance how it all was, but that Mr Crumb had better come along
with him just for the present.&nbsp; To this arrangement the
unfortunate hero from Bungay made not the slightest objection.

<p>"Miss Ruggles," said Mrs Hurtle, "if that young man doesn't
conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom."

<p>"Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's
ever so.&nbsp; He's been and killed Sir Felix."&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle in
a whisper to Mrs Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be
so.&nbsp; After that the three women all went to bed.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="72"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXII.&nbsp; "Ask Himself"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother
desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's
connection with Mrs Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a
reply.&nbsp; He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such
a case if he himself were not personally concerned.&nbsp; What
advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to
the daughter, were he himself uninterested?&nbsp; He was sure that,
as Hetta's cousin and asking as though he were Hetta's brother, he
would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that American
woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to
offer his hand to any other lady.&nbsp; He thought that he knew
enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his
decision.&nbsp; He had seen Mrs Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft,
and had known that they were staying together as friends at the
same hotel.&nbsp; He knew that she had come to England with the
express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which
Montague had often acknowledged.&nbsp; He knew that Montague made
frequent visits to her in London.&nbsp; He had, indeed, been told
by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the
engagement should be and in fact had been broken off.&nbsp; He
thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in
his firmness.&nbsp; And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for
supposing that Mrs Hurtle had consented to be abandoned.&nbsp; What
father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to
become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties?&nbsp; He
certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by
which he had surrounded himself;&mdash;but not on that account could he
think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage
himself to another woman.

<p>All this was clear to Roger Carbury.&nbsp; But then it had been
equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist
his own cause by telling a tale,&mdash;which tale had become known to
him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be
told.&nbsp; He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs
Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft.&nbsp; But what was he
to do now?&nbsp; The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for
the other man,&mdash;that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been
as he thought so foul a traitor to himself!&nbsp; That he would
hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying
hostility he had determined.&nbsp; That his love for the woman
would be equally perpetual he was quite sure.&nbsp; Already there
were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in
the person of some child of Hetta's,&mdash;but with the distinct
understanding that he and the child's father should never see each
other.&nbsp; No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between
the receipt of Paul's letter and that from Lady Carbury,&mdash;but
during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs
Hurtle.&nbsp; The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of
his own loss and of Paul's perfidy.&nbsp; Then came the direct
question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer.&nbsp;
Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain
Mrs Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient
that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed
lover?&nbsp; Of course he did.&nbsp; The facts were all familiar to
him.&nbsp; But how was he to tell the facts?&nbsp; In what words
was he to answer such a letter?&nbsp; If he told the truth as he
knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of
telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist
himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

<p>As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady
Carbury's letter he determined that he would go to London.&nbsp; If
he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by
any written words.&nbsp; So he made the journey, arrived in town
late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street
between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting
which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb.&nbsp; The page
when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the
family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible
calamity.&nbsp; "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see
Sir Felix who was,&mdash;as the page reported,&mdash;in a very bad way
indeed.&nbsp; The page did not exactly know what had happened, but
supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this
time.&nbsp; Yes; Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see
her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and
dreadfully put about.&nbsp; That poor Hetta should be "put about"
with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an
abominable American woman was natural enough.

<p>"What's this about Felix?" asked Roger.&nbsp; The new trouble
always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.

<p>"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you.&nbsp; Felix did not come
home last night, and this morning there came a man from the
hospital in the city to say that he is there."

<p>"What has happened to him?"

<p>"Somebody,&mdash;somebody has,&mdash;beaten him," said Hetta
whimpering.&nbsp; Then she told the story as far as she knew
it.&nbsp; The messenger from the hospital had declared that the
young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken,
but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were
in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his
lips cut open.&nbsp; But, the messenger had gone on to say, the
house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not
be taken home.&nbsp; "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta.

<p>"That's John Crumb," said Roger.&nbsp; Hetta had never heard of
John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face.&nbsp; "You
have not been told about John Crumb?&nbsp; No;&mdash;you would not hear
of him."

<p>"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"

<p>"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that
occur in the world."&nbsp; The girl blushed up to her eyes, as
though the whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to
her.&nbsp; "If it be as I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb
has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged
himself."

<p>"Did you&mdash;know of him before?"

<p>"Yes indeed;&mdash;very well.&nbsp; He is a neighbour of mine and was
in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her
his wife and have been good to her.&nbsp; He had a home to offer
her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and
respected and happy.&nbsp; Your brother saw her and, though he knew
the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest
fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he
thought,&mdash;well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as
this girl was too good for John Crumb."

<p>"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"

<p>"You're old-fashioned, Hetta.&nbsp; It used to be the way,&mdash;to
be off with your old love before you are on with the new; but that
seems to be all changed now.&nbsp; Such fine young fellows as there
are now can be in love with two at once.&nbsp; That I fear is what
Felix has thought;&mdash;and now he has been punished."

<p>"You know all about it then?"

<p>"No;&mdash;I don't know.&nbsp; But I think it has been so.&nbsp; I do
know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt
sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word.&nbsp; If
it has been so, who is to blame him?"

<p>Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in
his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of
that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself.&nbsp; He
would have made her his wife and have been good to her.&nbsp; He
had a home to offer her.&nbsp; He was an honest man with whom she
would have been safe and respected and happy!&nbsp; He had looked
at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he
spoke.&nbsp; And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of
being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he
not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American
woman?&nbsp; But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it
by words.&nbsp; He must speak more plainly than that before she
could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own
condition.&nbsp; "It is very shocking," she said.

<p>"Shocking;&mdash;yes.&nbsp; One is shocked at it all.&nbsp; I pity
your mother, and I pity you."

<p>"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said
Hetta.&nbsp; She was longing to be told something of Mrs Hurtle,
but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.

<p>"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he
after a short pause.

<p>"Pray wait for her if you are not very busy."

<p>"I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to
be here when she brings Felix back to the house."

<p>"Indeed she will.&nbsp; She would like you always to be here
when there are troubles.&nbsp; Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell
me."

<p>"Tell you what?"

<p>"She has written to you;&mdash;has she not?"

<p>"Yes; she has written to me."

<p>"And about me?"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;about you, Hetta.&nbsp; And, Hetta, Mr Montague has
written to me also."

<p>"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.

<p>"Did he tell you my answer?"

<p>"No;&mdash;he has told me of no answer.&nbsp; I have not seen him
since."

<p>"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you?&nbsp;
I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall
not attempt to show it after the same fashion."

<p>"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"

<p>"I did not say so;&mdash;but she had promised.&nbsp; Yes, Hetta;
there is a difference.&nbsp; The girl then was fickle and went back
from her word.&nbsp; You never have done that.&nbsp; I am not
justified in thinking even a hard thought of you.&nbsp; I have
never harboured a hard thought of you.&nbsp; It is not you that I
reproach.&nbsp; But he,&mdash;he has been if possible more false than
Felix."

<p>"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"

<p>Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs
Hurtle.&nbsp; The treachery of which he was speaking was that which
he had thought had been committed by his friend towards
himself.&nbsp; "He should have left the place and never have come
near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with
him.&nbsp; He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my
lips."

<p>How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have
touched his lips?&nbsp; And yet if this were the only falsehood of
which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was
so.&nbsp; That horrid story of Mrs Hurtle;&mdash;she would listen to
that if she could hear it.&nbsp; She would be all ears for
that.&nbsp; But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in
loving her.&nbsp; "But, Roger," she said,&mdash;"it would have been the
same."

<p>"You may say so.&nbsp; You may feel it.&nbsp; You may know
it.&nbsp; I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that
it must have been so.&nbsp; But he didn't feel it.&nbsp; He didn't
know it.&nbsp; He was to me as a younger brother,&mdash;and he has
robbed me of everything.&nbsp; I understand, Hetta, what you
mean.&nbsp; I should never have succeeded!&nbsp; My happiness would
have been impossible if Paul had never come home from
America.&nbsp; I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot
therefore forgive him.&nbsp; And I won't forgive him, Hetta.&nbsp;
Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are
Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the
same.&nbsp; While we both live, you must be to me the dearest
creature living.&nbsp; My hatred to him&mdash;"

<p>"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."

<p>"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to
you.&nbsp; I tell you that should you become his wife you will
still be my love.&nbsp; As to not coveting,&mdash;how is a man to cease
to covet that which he has always coveted?&nbsp; But I shall be
separated from you.&nbsp; Should I be dying, then I should send for
you.&nbsp; You are the very essence of my life.&nbsp; I have no
dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you.&nbsp; He
might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I
could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me."

<p>But still there was no word of Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "Roger," she
said, "I have given it all away now.&nbsp; It cannot be given
twice."

<p>"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"

<p>"I think&mdash;never.&nbsp; Roger, is he unworthy?"

<p>"How can you trust me to answer such a question?&nbsp; He is my
enemy.&nbsp; He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is
to another.&nbsp; He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my
flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths.&nbsp; And
now you ask me whether he is unworthy!&nbsp; I cannot tell you."

<p>"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting
up and taking him by the arm.

<p>"No;&mdash;I will tell you nothing.&nbsp; Go to some one else, not to
me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to
disengage himself from her hold.

<p>"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because
you yourself are so good.&nbsp; Even though you hated him you would
say so.&nbsp; It would not be you to leave a false impression even
against your enemies.&nbsp; I ask you because, however it may be
with you, I know I can trust you.&nbsp; I can be nothing else to
you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as
a sister comes to a brother.&nbsp; He has my heart.&nbsp; Tell
me;&mdash;is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"

<p>"Ask himself, Hetta."

<p>"And you will tell me nothing?&nbsp; You will not try to save me
though you know that I am in danger?&nbsp; Who is&mdash;Mrs Hurtle?"

<p>"Have you asked him?"

<p>"I had not heard her name when he parted from me.&nbsp; I did
not even know that such a woman lived.&nbsp; Is it true that he has
promised to marry her?&nbsp; Felix told me of her, and told me also
that you knew.&nbsp; But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust
you.&nbsp; And mamma says that it is so;&mdash;but mamma also bids me
ask you.&nbsp; There is such a woman?"

<p>"There is such a woman certainly."

<p>"And she has been,&mdash;a friend of Paul's?"

<p>"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from
me.&nbsp; I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in
regard to his conduct to myself.&nbsp; Send for him and ask him to
tell you the story of Mrs Hurtle as it concerns himself.&nbsp; I do
not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is
lying."

<p>"And that is all?"

<p>"All that I can say, Hetta.&nbsp; You ask me to be your
brother;&mdash;but I cannot put myself in the place of your
brother.&nbsp; I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall
remain so.&nbsp; Your brother would welcome the man whom you would
choose as your husband.&nbsp; I can never welcome any husband of
yours.&nbsp; I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you
were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,&mdash;though an
old one.&nbsp; What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?"

<p>"Ah what can be done?&nbsp; I think sometimes that it will break
mamma's heart."

<p>"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."

<p>"But what can she do?&nbsp; You would not have her turn him into
the street?"

<p>"I do not know that I would not.&nbsp; For a time it might serve
him perhaps.&nbsp; Here is the cab.&nbsp; Here they are.&nbsp; Yes;
you had better go down and let your mother know that I am
here.&nbsp; They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need
not see him."

<p>Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in
the hall.&nbsp; Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was
able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into
the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid
himself in the dining-room.&nbsp; His face was strapped up with
plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were
swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his
physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would
hardly have known him.&nbsp; "Roger is upstairs, mamma," said Hetta
in the hall.

<p>"Has he heard about Felix;&mdash;has he come about that?"

<p>"He has heard only what I have told him.&nbsp; He has come
because of your letter.&nbsp; He says that a man named Crumb did
it."

<p>"Then he does know.&nbsp; Who can have told him?&nbsp; He always
knows everything.&nbsp; Oh, Hetta, what am I to do?&nbsp; Where
shall I go with this wretched boy?"

<p>"Is he hurt, mamma?"

<p>"Hurt;&mdash;of course he is hurt; horribly hurt.&nbsp; The brute
tried to kill him.&nbsp; They say that he will be dreadfully
scarred for ever.&nbsp; But oh, Hetta;&mdash;what am I to do with
him?&nbsp; What am I to do with myself and you?"

<p>On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any
personal intercourse with his cousin Felix.&nbsp; The unfortunate
one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the
parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin in the
drawing-room.&nbsp; She had learned the truth with some fair
approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied
as to every detail.&nbsp; There are some circumstances so
distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a
necessity.&nbsp; When a young man has behaved badly about a woman,
when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a
young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's
eyes, what can he do but lie?&nbsp; How could Sir Felix tell the
truth about that rash encounter?&nbsp; But the policeman who had
brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew.&nbsp; The
man who had thrashed the baronet had been Crumb, and the thrashing
had been given on the score of a young woman called Ruggles.&nbsp;
So much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden
by any lies which Sir Felix might tell.&nbsp; And when Sir Felix
swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him,
no one believed him.&nbsp; In such cases the liar does not expect
to be believed.&nbsp; He knows that his disgrace will be made
public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring
it with his own words.

<p>"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her
cousin.&nbsp; "It is no use telling me to leave him.&nbsp; I can't
do that.&nbsp; I know he is bad.&nbsp; I know that I have done much
to make him what he is."&nbsp; As she said this the tears were
running down her poor worn cheeks.&nbsp; "But he is my child.&nbsp;
What am I to do with him now?"

<p>This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to
answer.&nbsp; If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared
that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go
headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction.&nbsp;
Thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation
for him.&nbsp; "Perhaps I should take him abroad," he said.

<p>"Would he be better abroad than here?"

<p>"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of
running you into debt."

<p>Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of
all the hopes which she had indulged,&mdash;her literary aspirations,
her Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her
Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the
determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her
days she would become somebody in the world.&nbsp; Must she give it
all up and retire to the dreariness of some French town because it
was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a
son as hers?&nbsp; There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all
cruelties that she had hitherto endured.&nbsp; This was harder even
than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of
her life she had run from her husband's house.&nbsp; But yet she
must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be
together.&nbsp; "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so.&nbsp; I
only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it."

<p>"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the
bush, and so be got rid of.&nbsp; I have heard of that
before.&nbsp; Wherever he goes I shall go."

<p>As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this
cousin of his in much esteem.&nbsp; He knew her to be worldly and
he thought her to be unprincipled.&nbsp; But now, at this moment,
her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to
defend, wiped out all her sins.&nbsp; He forgot the visit made to
Carbury under false pretences, and the Melmottes, and all the
little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an
affection which was pure and beautiful.&nbsp; "If you like to let
your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you."

<p>"But, Felix?"

<p>"You shall take him there.&nbsp; I am all alone in the
world.&nbsp; I can make a home for myself at the cottage.&nbsp; It
is empty now.&nbsp; If you think that would save you you can try it
for six months."

<p>"And turn you out of your own house?&nbsp; No, Roger.&nbsp; I
cannot do that.&nbsp; And, Roger;&mdash;what is to be done about
Hetta?"&nbsp; Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her
mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions
asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs Hurtle, which her
presence would prevent.&nbsp; She wished it could have been
otherwise&mdash;that she might have been allowed to hear it all
herself&mdash;as she was sure that the story coming through her mother
would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her
by her cousin Roger.

<p>"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.

<p>"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young
man?&nbsp; Is it not true that he is even now living with an
American woman whom he has promised to marry?"

<p>"No;&mdash;that is not true."

<p>"What is true then?&nbsp; Is he not engaged to the woman?"&nbsp;
Roger hesitated a moment.&nbsp; "I do not know that even that is
true.&nbsp; When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the
engagement was at an end.&nbsp; I have told Hetta to ask
himself.&nbsp; Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman
from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth.&nbsp; I do not
love him, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; He has no longer any place in my
friendship.&nbsp; But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is
the nature of his connexion with Mrs Hurtle, he will tell her the
truth."

<p>Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did
he see his cousin Felix at all.&nbsp; He had now done all that he
could do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day
back to Carbury.&nbsp; Would it not be better for him, in spite of
the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family
from his mind?&nbsp; There could be no other love for him.&nbsp; He
must be desolate and alone.&nbsp; But he might then save himself
from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as
though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the
world.&nbsp; But no!&nbsp; He would not allow himself to believe
that this could be right.&nbsp; The very fact of his love made it a
duty to him,&mdash;made it almost the first of his duties,&mdash;to watch
over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to
her.

<p>But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="73"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXIII.&nbsp; Marie's Fortune</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father
had already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be
taken from her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the
truth.&nbsp; She knew of the matter almost as little as it was
possible that she should know.&nbsp; As far as reticence on the
subject was compatible with the object he had in view Melmotte had
kept from her all knowledge of the details of the
arrangement.&nbsp; But it had been necessary when the thing was
done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie's memory
and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father's
anticipation.&nbsp; He was deriving a very considerable income from
a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her
name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him
to draw this income on her behalf.&nbsp; This he had done fearing
shipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that,
let circumstances go as they might, there should still be left
enough to him of the money which he had realised to enable him to
live in comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in
obscurity, or even in infamy.&nbsp; He had sworn to himself
solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this money to
go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he had
been true to his oath.&nbsp; Though bankruptcy and apparent ruin
might be imminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of
this money even though it might appear at the moment that the money
would be sufficient for the purpose.&nbsp; If such a day should
come, then, with that certain income, he would make himself happy,
if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever city of the
world might know least of his antecedents, and give him the warmest
welcome on behalf of his wealth.&nbsp; Such had been his scheme of
life.&nbsp; But he had failed to consider various
circumstances.&nbsp; His daughter might be untrue to him, or in the
event of her marriage might fail to release his property,&mdash;or it
might be that the very money should be required to dower his
daughter.&nbsp; Or there might come troubles on him so great that
even the certainty of a future income would not enable him to bear
them.&nbsp; Now, at this present moment, his mind was tortured by
great anxiety.&nbsp; Were he to resume this property it would more
than enable him to pay all that was due to the Longestaffes.&nbsp;
It would do that and tide him for a time over some other
difficulties.&nbsp; Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves,
he certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had
made for himself, on their behalf.&nbsp; Were it necessary that a
crash should come they would be as good creditors as any
other.&nbsp; But then he was painfully alive to the fact that
something beyond simple indebtedness was involved in that
transaction.&nbsp; He had with his own hand traced Dolly
Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old Mr
Longestaffe's drawer.&nbsp; He had found it in an envelope,
addressed by the elder Mr Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and
Bideawhile, and he had himself posted this letter in a pillarbox
near to his house.&nbsp; In the execution of this manoeuvre,
circumstances had greatly befriended him.&nbsp; He had become the
tenant of Mr Longestaffe's house, and at the same time had only
been the joint tenant of Mr Longestaffe's study,&mdash;so that Mr
Longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands.&nbsp; To pick a
lock was with him an accomplishment long since learned.&nbsp; But
his science in that line did not go so far as to enable him to
replace the bolt in its receptacle.&nbsp; He had picked a lock, had
found the letter prepared by Mr Bideawhile with its accompanying
envelope, and had then already learned enough of the domestic
circumstances of the Longestaffe family to feel assured that unless
he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted letter
by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended
destination.&nbsp; In all this fortune had in some degree
befriended him.&nbsp; The circumstances being as they were it was
hardly possible that the forgery should be discovered.&nbsp; Even
though the young man were to swear that the signature was not his,
even though the old man were to swear that he had left that drawer
properly locked with the unsigned letter in it, still there could
be no evidence.&nbsp; People might think.&nbsp; People might
speak.&nbsp; People might feel sure.&nbsp; And then a crash would
come.&nbsp; But there would still be that ample fortune on which to
retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days.

<p>Then there came annoying complications in his affairs.&nbsp;
What had been so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly
Longestaffe never would have signed, was less easy but still
feasible in another matter.&nbsp; Under the joint pressure of
immediate need, growing ambition, and increasing audacity it had
been done.&nbsp; Then the rumours that were spread abroad,&mdash;which
to Melmotte were serious indeed,&mdash;they named, at any rate in
reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing that had been
done.&nbsp; Now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually
home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done
that thing, of what use then would be all that money?&nbsp; When
that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it
might not be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if
it might be so used.&nbsp; No doubt all danger in that Longestaffe
affair might be bought off by payment of the price stipulated for
the Pickering property.&nbsp; Neither would Dolly Longestaffe nor
Squercum, of whom Mr Melmotte had already heard, concern himself in
this matter if the money claimed were paid.&nbsp; But then the
money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as he
firmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove
the thing which he had done.

<p>But the complications were so many!&nbsp; Perhaps in his
admiration for the country of his adoption Mr Melmotte had allowed
himself to attach higher privileges to the British aristocracy than
do in truth belong to them.&nbsp; He did in his heart believe that
could he be known to all the world as the father-in-law of the
eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie he would become, not
really free of the law, but almost safe from its fangs in regard to
such an affair as this.&nbsp; He thought he could so use the family
with which he would be connected as to force from it that
protection which he would need.&nbsp; And then again, if he could
tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a British
Marquis for his son-in-law!&nbsp; Like many others he had failed
altogether to inquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or
what would be its nature.&nbsp; But he did believe that such a
marriage would add a charm to his life.&nbsp; Now he knew that Lord
Nidderdale could not be got to marry his daughter without the
positive assurance of absolute property, but he did think that the
income which might thus be transferred with Marie, though it fell
short of that which had been promised, might suffice for the time;
and he had already given proof to the Marquis's lawyer that his
daughter was possessed of the property in question.

<p>And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen
within the last few days and which had startled Mr Melmotte very
much indeed.&nbsp; On a certain morning he had sent for Marie to
the study and had told her that he should require her signature in
reference to a deed.&nbsp; She had asked him what deed.&nbsp; He
had replied that it would be a document regarding money and
reminded her that she had signed such a deed once before, telling
her that it was all in the way of business.&nbsp; It was not
necessary that she should ask any more questions as she would be
wanted only to sign the paper.&nbsp; Then Marie astounded him, not
merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the
transaction than he had thought,&mdash;but also by a positive refusal to
sign anything at all.&nbsp; The reader may understand that there
had been many words between them.&nbsp; "I know, papa.&nbsp; It is
that you may have the money to do what you like with.&nbsp; You
have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do
it.&nbsp; If I ever marry the money will belong to my
husband!"&nbsp; His breath almost failed him as he listened to
these words.&nbsp; He did not know whether to approach her with
threats, with entreaties, or with blows.&nbsp; Before the interview
was over he had tried all three.&nbsp; He had told her that he
could and would put her in prison for conduct so fraudulent.&nbsp;
He besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrous
perversity.&nbsp; And at last he took her by both arms and shook
her violently.&nbsp; But Marie was quite firm.&nbsp; He might cut
her to pieces; but she would sign nothing.&nbsp; "I suppose you
thought Sir Felix would have had the entire sum," said the father
with deriding scorn.

<p>"And he would;&mdash;if he had the spirit to take it," answered
Marie.

<p>This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale
plan.&nbsp; He would no doubt lose the immediate income, but in
doing so he would secure the Marquis.&nbsp; He was therefore
induced, on weighing in his nicest-balanced scales the advantages
and disadvantages, to leave the Longestaffes unpaid and to let
Nidderdale have the money.&nbsp; Not that he could make up his mind
to such a course with any conviction that he was doing the best for
himself.&nbsp; The dangers on all sides were very great!&nbsp; But
at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him, and this
was the boldest stroke.&nbsp; Marie had now said that she would
accept Nidderdale,&mdash;or the sweep at the crossing.

<p>On Monday morning,&mdash;it was on the preceding Thursday that he had
made his famous speech in Parliament,&mdash;one of the Bideawhiles had
come to him in the City.&nbsp; He had told Mr Bideawhile that all
the world knew that just at the present moment money was very
"tight" in the City.&nbsp; "We are not asking for payment of a
commercial debt," said Mr Bideawhile, "but for the price of a
considerable property which you have purchased.&nbsp;" Mr Melmotte
had suggested that the characteristics of the money were the same,
let the sum in question have become due how it might.&nbsp; Then he
offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months'
date, with proper interest allowed.&nbsp; But this offer Mr
Bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds
might be restored to them.

<p>"You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds," said
Melmotte.&nbsp; "You can only claim the sum due, and I have already
told you how I propose to pay it."

<p>Mr Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay.&nbsp; In
the whole course of his business, in all the records of the very
respectable firm to which he belonged, there had never been such a
thing as this.&nbsp; Of course Mr Longestaffe had been the person
to blame,&mdash;so at least all the Bideawhiles declared among
themselves.&nbsp; He had been so anxious to have dealings with the
man of money that he had insisted that the title-deeds should be
given up.&nbsp; But then the title-deeds had not been his to
surrender.&nbsp; The Pickering estate had been the joint property
of him and his son.&nbsp; The house had been already pulled down,
and now the purchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase
money!&nbsp; "Do you mean to tell me, Mr Melmotte, that you have
not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that
nevertheless the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?"

<p>"I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value,
thirty times the value," said Melmotte proudly; "but you must know
I should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs
cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a
day's notice."&nbsp; Mr Bideawhile without using language that was
absolutely vituperative gave Mr Melmotte to understand that he
thought that he and his client had been robbed, and that he should
at once take whatever severest steps the law put in his
power.&nbsp; As Mr Melmotte shrugged his shoulders and made no
further reply, Mr Bideawhile could only take his departure.

<p>The attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own
client, and to his own house in opposition to Mr Squercum,
nevertheless was becoming doubtful in his own mind as to the
genuineness of the letter which Dolly was so persistent in
declaring that he had not signed.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe himself, who
was at any rate an honest man, had given it as his opinion that
Dolly had not signed the letter.&nbsp; His son had certainly
refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have had no
opportunity of signing it since.&nbsp; He was all but sure that he
had left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the
room which had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his
own.&nbsp; Then, on entering the room in Melmotte's
presence,&mdash;their friendship at the time having already
ceased,&mdash;he found that his drawer was open.&nbsp; This same Mr
Bideawhile was with him at the time.&nbsp; "Do you mean to say that
I have opened your drawer?" said Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe
had become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he
certainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left
the drawer unlocked.&nbsp; He knew his own habits and was sure that
he had never left that drawer open in his life.&nbsp; "Then you
must have changed the habits of your life on this occasion," said
Mr Melmotte with spirit.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe would trust himself
to no other word within the house, but, when they were out in the
street together, he assured the lawyer that certainly that drawer
had been left locked, and that to the best of his belief the letter
unsigned had been left within the drawer.&nbsp; Mr Bideawhile could
only remark that it was the most unfortunate circumstance with
which he had ever been concerned.

<p>The marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best
thing, if it could only be accomplished.&nbsp; The reader must
understand that though Mr Melmotte had allowed himself considerable
poetical licence in that statement as to property thirty times as
great as the price which he ought to have paid for Pickering, still
there was property.&nbsp; The man's speculations had been so great
and so wide that he did not really know what he owned, or what he
owed.&nbsp; But he did know that at the present moment he was
driven very hard for large sums.&nbsp; His chief trust for
immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had really been
the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway.&nbsp; He had
trusted much to Cohenlupe,&mdash;more than it had been customary with
him to trust to any man.&nbsp; Cohenlupe assured him that nothing
could be done with the railway shares at the present moment.&nbsp;
They had fallen under the panic almost to nothing.&nbsp; Now in the
time of his trouble Melmotte wanted money from the great railway,
but just because he wanted money the great railway was worth
nothing.&nbsp; Cohenlupe told him that he must tide over the evil
hour,&mdash;or rather over an evil month.&nbsp; It was at Cohenlupe's
instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr
Bideawhile.&nbsp; "Offer 'em again," said Cohenlupe.&nbsp; "He must
take the bills sooner or later."

<p>On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the
lobby of the House.&nbsp; "Have you seen Marie lately?" he
said.&nbsp; Nidderdale had been assured that morning, by his
father's lawyer, in his father's presence, that if he married Miss
Melmotte at present he would undoubtedly become possessed of an
income amounting to something over &pound;5,000 a year.&nbsp; He
had intended to get more than that,&mdash;and was hardly prepared to
accept Marie at such a price; but then there probably would be
more.&nbsp; No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering.&nbsp;
Melmotte certainly had been raising money.&nbsp; But this might
probably be an affair of a few weeks.&nbsp; Melmotte had declared
that Pickering should be made over to the young people at the
marriage.&nbsp; His father had recommended him to get the girl to
name a day.&nbsp; The marriage could be broken off at the last day
if the property were not forthcoming.

<p>"I'm going up to your house almost immediately," said
Nidderdale.

<p>"You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and
six," said Melmotte.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="74"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXIV.&nbsp; Melmotte Makes a Friend</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said
to the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving
them alone together.

<p>"I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie.

<p>"And what's the result?"

<p>"Oh,&mdash;I'll have you."

<p>"That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa
close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist.

<p>"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said.

<p>"You might as well call me John."

<p>"Then wait a moment,&mdash;John.&nbsp; You think you might as well
marry me, though you don't love me a bit."

<p>"That's not true, Marie."

<p>"Yes it is;&mdash;it's quite true.&nbsp; And I think just the
same,&mdash;that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a
bit."

<p>"But you will."

<p>"I don't know.&nbsp; I don't feel like it just at present.&nbsp;
You had better know the exact truth, you know.&nbsp; I have told my
father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you
did I would accept you.&nbsp; But I'm not going to tell any stories
about it.&nbsp; You know who I've been in love with."

<p>"But you can't be in love with him now."

<p>"Why not?&nbsp; I can't marry him.&nbsp; I know that.&nbsp; And
if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would.&nbsp; He has
behaved bad."

<p>"Have I behaved bad?"

<p>"Not like him.&nbsp; You never did care, and you never said you
cared."

<p>"Oh yes,&mdash;I have."

<p>"Not at first.&nbsp; You say it now because you think that I
shall like it.&nbsp; But it makes no difference now.&nbsp; I don't
mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's
just as well for both of us to look on it as business."

<p>"How very hard you are, Marie."

<p>"No, I ain't.&nbsp; I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I
tell you.&nbsp; I did love him."

<p>"Surely you have found him out now."

<p>"Yes, I have," said Marie.&nbsp; "He's a poor creature."

<p>"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,&mdash;most
horribly."&nbsp; Marie had not been told of this, and started back
from her lover's arms.&nbsp; "You hadn't heard it?"

<p>"Who has thrashed him?"

<p>"I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has
been cut about in a terrible manner."

<p>"Why should anybody beat him?&nbsp; Did he do anything?"

<p>"There was a young lady in the question, Marie."

<p>"A young lady!&nbsp; What young lady?&nbsp; I don't believe
it.&nbsp; But it's nothing to me.&nbsp; I don't care about
anything, Lord Nidderdale;&mdash;not a bit.&nbsp; I suppose you've made
up all that out of your own head."

<p>"Indeed, no.&nbsp; I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was
about a young woman.&nbsp; But it signifies nothing to me, and I
don't suppose it signifies much to you.&nbsp; Don't you think we
might fix a day, Marie?"

<p>"I don't care the least," said Marie.&nbsp; "The longer it's put
off the better I shall like it;&mdash;that's all."

<p>"Because I'm so detestable?"

<p>"No,&mdash;you ain't detestable.&nbsp; I think you are a very good
fellow; only you don't care for me.&nbsp; But it is detestable not
being able to do what one wants.&nbsp; It's detestable having to
quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with
anybody.&nbsp; And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth
to give one any interest."

<p>"You couldn't take any interest in me?"

<p>"Not the least."

<p>"Suppose you try.&nbsp; Wouldn't you like to know anything about
the place where we live?"

<p>"It's a castle, I know."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old."

<p>"I hate old places.&nbsp; I should like a new house, and a new
dress, and a new horse every week,&mdash;and a new lover.&nbsp; Your
father lives at the castle.&nbsp; I don't suppose we are to go and
live there too."

<p>"We shall be there sometimes.&nbsp; When shall it be?"

<p>"The year after next."

<p>"Nonsense, Marie."

<p>"To-morrow."

<p>"You wouldn't be ready."

<p>"You may manage it all just as you like with papa.&nbsp; Oh,
yes,&mdash;kiss me; of course you may.&nbsp; If I'm to belong to you
what does it matter?&nbsp; No;&mdash;I won't say that I love you.&nbsp;
But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true.&nbsp;
That's more than you can say of yourself,&mdash;John."

<p>So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the
house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his
mind to any operation of thinking.&nbsp; He was fully determined to
go on with it.&nbsp; As far as the girl herself was concerned, she
had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than
when he had first known her.&nbsp; She certainly was not a
fool.&nbsp; And, though he could not tell himself that she was
altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which
made him think that she would be able to live with ladies.&nbsp;
And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary,
she was becoming fond of him,&mdash;as he certainly had become fond of
her.&nbsp; "Have you been up with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him.

<p>"Oh yes."

<p>"And what does Marie say?"

<p>"That you must fix the day."

<p>"We'll have it very soon then;&mdash;some time next month.&nbsp;
You'll want to get away in August.&nbsp; And to tell the truth so
shall I.&nbsp; I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been
this summer.&nbsp; The election and that horrid dinner had
something to do with it.&nbsp; And I don't mind telling you that
I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money.&nbsp; I
never had to find so many large sums in so short a time!&nbsp; And
I'm not quite through it yet."

<p>"I wonder why you gave the dinner then."

<p>"My dear boy,"&mdash;it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a
marquis his dear boy,&mdash;"as regards expenditure that was a
flea-bite.&nbsp; Nothing that I could spend myself would have the
slightest effect upon my condition one way or the other."

<p>"I wish it could be the same way with me," said Nidderdale.

<p>"If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking
Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you.&nbsp; But the
burden is very great.&nbsp; I never know whence these panics arise,
or why they come, or whither they go.&nbsp; But when they do come,
they are like a storm at sea.&nbsp; It is only the strong ships
that can stand the fury of the winds and waves.&nbsp; And then the
buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he
was.&nbsp; I've had it very hard this time."

<p>"I suppose you are getting right now."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I am getting right.&nbsp; I am not in any fear, if you
mean that.&nbsp; I don't mind telling you everything as it is
settled now that you are to be Marie's husband.&nbsp; I know that
you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I
say you wouldn't do it."

<p>"Certainly I would not."

<p>"You see I've no partner,&mdash;nobody that is bound to know my
affairs.&nbsp; My wife is the best woman in the world, but is
utterly unable to understand anything about it.&nbsp; Of course I
can't talk freely to Marie.&nbsp; Cohenlupe whom you see so much
with me is all very well,&mdash;in his way, but I never talk over my
affairs with him.&nbsp; He is concerned with me in one or two
things,&mdash;our American railway for instance, but he has no interest
generally in my house.&nbsp; It is all on my own shoulders, and I
can tell you the weight is a little heavy.&nbsp; It will be the
greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an
interest in the matter."

<p>"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business,"
said the modest young lord.

<p>"You wouldn't come and work, I suppose.&nbsp; I shouldn't expect
that.&nbsp; But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how
things are going on.&nbsp; Of course you heard all that was said
just before the election.&nbsp; For forty-eight hours I had a very
bad time of it then.&nbsp; The fact was that Alf and they who were
supporting him thought that they could carry the election by
running me down.&nbsp; They were at it for a fortnight,&mdash;perfectly
unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and
others.&nbsp; I thought that very cruel.&nbsp; They couldn't get
their man in, but they could and did have the effect of
depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of
money.&nbsp; Think what that is!"

<p>"I don't understand how it could be done."

<p>"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is
credit.&nbsp; They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that
infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that
I was ruined.&nbsp; The effect upon shares which I held was
instantaneous and tremendous.&nbsp; The Mexican railway were at
117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite
nominal,&mdash;so that selling was out of the question.&nbsp; Cohenlupe
and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares.&nbsp; Think what
that comes to!"&nbsp; Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did
come to, but failed altogether.&nbsp; "That's what I call a
blow;&mdash;a terrible blow.&nbsp; When a man is concerned as I am with
money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of
course exchanging one property for another every day of his
life,&mdash;according as the markets go.&nbsp; I don't keep such a sum
as that in one concern as an investment.&nbsp; Nobody does.&nbsp;
Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?"

<p>"Will they never go up again?"

<p>"Oh yes,&mdash;perhaps higher than ever.&nbsp; But it will take
time.&nbsp; And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon
property intended for other purposes.&nbsp; That's the meaning of
what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for
Marie.&nbsp; I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or
fifty thousand wherever I could.&nbsp; But that will be all right
in a week or two.&nbsp; And as for Marie's money,&mdash;that, you know,
is settled."

<p>He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that
he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young
man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might
be of service to his future father-in-law.&nbsp; Hazily, as through
a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of
the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of
commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it
might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo.&nbsp; He
resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be
divulged.&nbsp; He was on this occasion somewhat captivated by
Melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that
the financier was a big man;&mdash;one with whom he could sympathise,
and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.

<p>And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a
simulated confidence in his son-in-law.&nbsp; It had been pleasant
to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he
trusted.&nbsp; It was impossible that he could really admit any one
to a participation in his secrets.&nbsp; It was out of the question
that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the
truth of his own affairs.&nbsp; Of course every word he had said to
Nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies.&nbsp;
But it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked
after this fashion.&nbsp; Even though his friendship with the young
man were but a mock friendship,&mdash;though it would too probably be
turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,&mdash;still
there was a pleasure in it.&nbsp; The Grendalls had left him since
the day of the dinner,&mdash;Miles having sent him a letter up from the
country complaining of severe illness.&nbsp; It was a comfort to
him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred
Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.

<p>This conversation took place in the smoking-room.&nbsp; When it
was over Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away
to the Beargarden.&nbsp; The Beargarden had been opened again
though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury.&nbsp; Nor could
even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready
money.&nbsp; Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but the
bills which Vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against
the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the
members was left in the possession of Mr Flatfleece.&nbsp; Of
course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but still
the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members
that it had been reopened under a new management.&nbsp; No one had
felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,&mdash;of the
day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after
noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,&mdash;than did
Dolly Longestaffe.&nbsp; The Beargarden had become so much to him
that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible
without such a resort for his hours.&nbsp; But now the club was
again open, and Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine
with the luxury to which he was accustomed.

<p>But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of
injury.&nbsp; Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of
almost unlimited ease and indulgence.&nbsp; The arrangement made as
to the Pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass
his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in
hand.&nbsp; Squercum had told him that if he would stick to his
terms he would surely get them.&nbsp; He had stuck to his terms and
he had got them.&nbsp; And now the property was sold, and the
title-deeds gone,&mdash;and he had not received a penny!&nbsp; He did
not know whom to be loudest in abusing,&mdash;his father, the
Bideawhiles, or Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; And then it was said that he had
signed that letter!&nbsp; He was very open in his manner of talking
about his misfortune at the club.&nbsp; His father was the most
obstinate old fool that ever lived.&nbsp; As for the
Bideawhiles,&mdash;he would bring an action against them.&nbsp; Squercum
had explained all that to him.&nbsp; But Melmotte was the biggest
rogue the world had ever produced.&nbsp; "By George! the world," he
said, "must be coming to an end.&nbsp; There's that infernal
scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of
my property, and forged my name, and&mdash;and&mdash;by George! he ought to
be hung.&nbsp; If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man
deserves to be hung."&nbsp; This he spoke openly in the coffee-room
of the club, and was still speaking as Nidderdale was taking his
seat at one of the tables.&nbsp; Dolly had been dining, and had
turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom
he was addressing.

<p>Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently.&nbsp;
"Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I
am in the room.&nbsp; I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so
you'll find out in a day or two.&nbsp; You don't know Melmotte."

<p>"Mistaken!"&nbsp; Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud
voice.&nbsp; "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid
my money?"

<p>"I don't believe it has been owing very long."

<p>"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a
letter?"

<p>"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had
anything to do with it."

<p>"Squercum says&mdash;"

<p>"Never mind Squercum.&nbsp; We all know what are the suspicions
of a fellow of that kind."

<p>"I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte."

<p>"Look here, Dolly.&nbsp; I know more probably of Melmotte's
affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else.&nbsp; If it will
induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue
here,&mdash;I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes
you."

<p>"The devil you will."

<p>"I will indeed."

<p>Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should
hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would
not lower his voice.&nbsp; "That's out of the question, you know,"
he said.&nbsp; "How could I take your money?&nbsp; The truth is,
Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or
later.&nbsp; He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and
forged my name to a letter.&nbsp; Everybody knows it.&nbsp; Even my
governor knows it now,&mdash;and Bideawhile.&nbsp; Before many days are
over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery."

<p>This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was
either engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter.

<p>"Since you will speak about it in this public way&mdash;" began
Nidderdale.

<p>"I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way," said
Dolly.

<p>"I deny it as publicly.&nbsp; I can't say anything about the
letter except that I am sure Mr Melmotte did not put your name to
it.&nbsp; From what I understand there seems to have been some
blunder between your father and his lawyer."

<p>"That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse
Melmotte."

<p>"As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be
paid than that I stand here.&nbsp; What is it?&mdash;twenty-five
thousand, isn't it?"

<p>"Eighty thousand, the whole."

<p>"Well,&mdash;eighty thousand.&nbsp; It's impossible to suppose that
such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand
pounds."

<p>"Why don't he do it then?" asked Dolly.

<p>All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than
it used to be in old days.&nbsp; There was an attempt that night to
get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he
was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in
the country,&mdash;a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was
in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported
by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the
club.&nbsp; At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having
been summoned thither by Mr Ramsbottom.&nbsp; "By George," said
Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water,
"I think everything is going to come to an end.&nbsp; I do
indeed.&nbsp; I never heard of such a thing before as a man being
done in this way.&nbsp; And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems
everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him.&nbsp; And now
one can't even get up a game of cards.&nbsp; I feel as though there
were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again."

<p>The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter
in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe.&nbsp; It
was admitted by some to be "very fishy."&nbsp; If Melmotte were so
great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have
mortgaged the property before it was really his own?&nbsp; But the
majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong.&nbsp; As to the
signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be
quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed.&nbsp;
And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the
outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so
punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years
since.&nbsp; No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money,
and therefore,&mdash;as he had succeeded in getting the property into his
hands,&mdash;he did make use of it.&nbsp; But it would be forthcoming
sooner or later!&nbsp; In this way of looking at the matter the
Beargarden followed the world at large.&nbsp; The world at large,
in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's
dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous
depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted
fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was
inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="75"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXV.&nbsp; In Bruton Street</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mr Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work
and anxiety.&nbsp; It may be said of him that he had been quite
sharp enough to perceive the whole truth.&nbsp; He did really know
it all,&mdash;if he could prove that which he knew.&nbsp; He had
extended his inquiries in the city till he had convinced himself
that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago,
there was not enough of it left at present to cover the
liabilities.&nbsp; Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a
falling, but a fallen star,&mdash;perhaps not giving sufficient credence
to the recuperative powers of modern commerce.&nbsp; Squercum told
a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his specially
confidential friend, that Melmotte was a "gone coon."&nbsp; The
stockbroker made also some few inquiries, and on that evening
agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a "gone coon."&nbsp; If such
were the case it would positively be the making of Squercum if it
could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel
of this offensive dragon.&nbsp; So Squercum raged among the
Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against
him.&nbsp; They could not dare to bid defiance to
Squercum,&mdash;feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling
also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a
falsehood.&nbsp; "I suppose you give it up about the letter having
been signed by my client," said Squercum to the elder of the two
younger Bideawhiles.

<p>"I give up nothing and I assert nothing," said the superior
attorney.&nbsp; "Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no
reason to believe it to be otherwise.&nbsp; The young gentleman's
signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any
other as that other would be like the last."

<p>"Would you let me look at it again, Mr Bideawhile?"&nbsp; Then
the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten
days was handed to Mr Squercum.&nbsp; "It's a stiff
resemblance;&mdash;such as he never could have written had he tried it
ever so."

<p>"Perhaps not, Mr Squercum.&nbsp; We are not generally on the
look out for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients'
sons."

<p>"Just so, Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; But then Mr Longestaffe had
already told you that his son would not sign the letter."

<p>"How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that
will change his purpose?"

<p>"Just so, Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; But you see, after such a
declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the
letter,&mdash;which is in itself a little irregular perhaps&mdash;"

<p>"I don't know that it's irregular at all."

<p>"Well;&mdash;it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner.&nbsp;
We'll just say that.&nbsp; What Mr Longestaffe can have been at to
wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for
them&mdash;"

<p>"Excuse me, Mr Squercum, but that's between Mr Longestaffe and
us."

<p>"Just so;&mdash;but as Mr Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my
client's property it is natural that I should make a few
remarks.&nbsp; I think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr
Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed.&nbsp; I shall bring the
matter before the Lord Mayor, you know."&nbsp; To this Mr
Bideawhile said not a word.&nbsp; "And I think I understand you now
that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being
genuine."

<p>"I say nothing about it, Mr Squercum.&nbsp; I think you'll find
it very hard to prove that it's not genuine."

<p>"My client's oath, Mr Bideawhile."

<p>"I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he
does."

<p>"I don't know what you mean by that, Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; I
fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would
be very angry with me.&nbsp; Besides, what does it all amount
to?&nbsp; Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into
his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come
into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it
off?&nbsp; If I understand, Mr Longestaffe says that he locked the
letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and
that he afterwards found the drawer open.&nbsp; It won't, I
suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about
that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the
letter.&nbsp; Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign
it, Mr Bideawhile."

<p>"I have never said he did.&nbsp; All I say is that we had fair
ground for supposing that it was his letter.&nbsp; I really don't
know that I can say anything more."

<p>"Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together
in this matter."

<p>"I won't admit even that, Mr Squercum."

<p>"The difference being that your client by his fault has
jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my
client has not been in fault at all.&nbsp; I shall bring the matter
forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised
shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of
fraud.&nbsp; I presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring
the letter into court."

<p>"If so you may be sure that we shall produce it."&nbsp; Then Mr
Squercum took his leave and went straight away to Mr Bumby, a
barrister well known in the City.&nbsp; The game was too powerful
to be hunted down by Mr Squercum's unassisted hands.&nbsp; He had
already seen Mr Bumby on the matter more than once.&nbsp; Mr Bumby
was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the
money, or some guarantee for the money.&nbsp; Mr Bumby thought that
if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the
property it might be expedient to take it.&nbsp; Mr Squercum
suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine
sale having been made.&nbsp; Mr Bumby shook his head.&nbsp;
"Title-deeds give possession, Mr Squercum.&nbsp; You don't suppose
that the company which has lent money to Melmotte on the
title-deeds would have to lose it.&nbsp; Take the bill; and if it
is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the
property.&nbsp; There must be assets."

<p>"Every rap will have been made over," said Mr Squercum.

<p>This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had
offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law.&nbsp; On
the following Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study
in the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the
letter had been abstracted.&nbsp; There were Mr Longestaffe, the
father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; The house was
still in Melmotte's possession, and Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe
were no longer on friendly terms.&nbsp; Direct application for
permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally
made to Mr Melmotte, and he had complied.&nbsp; The meeting took
place at eleven o'clock&mdash;a terribly early hour.&nbsp; Dolly had at
first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the
fire of two enemies, and Mr Squercum had told him that as the
matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously
refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer.&nbsp;
Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to
himself.&nbsp; "By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to
take all this trouble about it," Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough,
with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with
Nidderdale.&nbsp; Dolly entered the room last, and at that time
neither Mr Longestaffe nor Mr Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or
even the table, in which the letter had been deposited.

<p>"Now, Mr Longestaffe," said Mr Bideawhile, "perhaps you will
show us where you think you put the letter."

<p>"I don't think at all," said he.&nbsp; "Since the matter has
been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory."

<p>"I never signed it," said Dolly, standing with his hands in his
pockets and interrupting his father.

<p>"Nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father with an angry
voice.&nbsp; "If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps
arrive at the truth."

<p>"But somebody has said that I did.&nbsp; I've been told that Mr
Bideawhile says so."

<p>"No, Mr Longestaffe; no.&nbsp; We have never said so.&nbsp; We
have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be
other than genuine.&nbsp; We have never gone beyond that."

<p>"Nothing on earth would have made me sign it," said Dolly.&nbsp;
"Why should I have given my property up before I got my
money?&nbsp; I never heard such a thing in my life."

<p>The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head,
testifying as to the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy.&nbsp;
"Now, Mr Longestaffe," continued the lawyer, "let us see where you
put the letter."

<p>Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of
deportment, opened the drawer,&mdash;the second drawer from the top, and
took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed,
"There," said he, "the letter was not placed in the envelope but on
the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the
bundle."&nbsp; He went on to say that as far as he knew no other
paper had been taken away.&nbsp; He was quite certain that he had
left the drawer locked.&nbsp; He was very particular in regard to
that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr
Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it,
and,&mdash;as he was certain,&mdash;had locked it again.&nbsp; At that
special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between
him and Melmotte.&nbsp; It was then that Mr Melmotte had offered
him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.

<p>"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said
Dolly.&nbsp; "It's as plain as a pikestaff.&nbsp; It's clear enough
to hang any man."

<p>"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and
just may be the suspicion induced," said the lawyer.&nbsp; "Your
father for a time was not quite certain about the letter."

<p>"He thought that I had signed it," said Dolly.

<p>"I am quite certain now," rejoined the father angrily.&nbsp; "A
man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything."

<p>"I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury."

<p>"What I want to know is how are we to get the money," said
Dolly.&nbsp; "I should like to see him hung,&mdash;of course; but I'd
sooner have the money. Squercum says&mdash;"

<p>"Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr Squercum says."

<p>"I don't know why what Mr Squercum says shouldn't be as good as
what Mr Bideawhile says.&nbsp; Of course Squercum doesn't sound
very aristocratic."

<p>"Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt," said the lawyer
laughing.

<p>"No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal
lower than Lincoln's Inn.&nbsp; Nevertheless Squercum may know what
he's about.&nbsp; It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte
in this matter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as
much about it as we do at present."&nbsp; Squercum's name was
odious to the elder Longestaffe.&nbsp; He believed, probably
without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from
Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in
the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would
never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made
this terrible blunder about the Pickering property.&nbsp; And the
sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears.&nbsp;
He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking
his head and frowning.&nbsp; His son looked at him as though quite
astonished at his displeasure.&nbsp; "There's nothing more to be
done here, sir, I suppose," said Dolly putting on his hat.

<p>"Nothing more," said Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; "It may be that I
shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should
see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing
stood.&nbsp; You speak so positively, Mr Longestaffe, that there
can be no doubt?"

<p>"There is no doubt."

<p>"And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our
presence.&nbsp; Stop a moment&mdash;I might as well see whether there is
any sign of violence having been used."&nbsp; So saying Mr
Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine
the lock.&nbsp; This he did very carefully and satisfied himself
that there was "no sign of violence."&nbsp; "Whoever has done it,
did it very well," said Bideawhile.

<p>"Of course Melmotte did it," said Dolly Longestaffe standing
immediately over Bideawhile's shoulder.

<p>At that moment there was a knock at the door,&mdash;a very distinct,
and, we may say, a formal knock.&nbsp; There are those who knock
and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked.&nbsp;
Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr Bideawhile would
have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level
of the keyhole.&nbsp; But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and
the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the
effort.&nbsp; There was a pause, during which Mr Bideawhile moved
away from the table,&mdash;as he might have done had he been picking a
lock;&mdash;and then Mr Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a
sepulchral voice.&nbsp; The door was opened, and Mr Melmotte
appeared.

<p>Now Mr Melmotte's presence certainly had not been
expected.&nbsp; It was known that it was his habit to be in the
City at this hour.&nbsp; It was known also that he was well aware
that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special
hour,&mdash;and he might well have surmised with what view.&nbsp; There
was now declared hostility between both the Longestaffes and Mr
Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen
concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet
them on this occasion.&nbsp; "Gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you
think that I am intruding at the present moment."&nbsp; No one said
that he did not think so.&nbsp; The elder Longestaffe simply bowed
very coldly.&nbsp; Mr Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his
thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.&nbsp; Dolly, who at first forgot
to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on
his heel.&nbsp; That was his mode of expressing his thorough
surprise at the appearance of his debtor.&nbsp; "I fear that you do
think I am intruding," said Melmotte, "but I trust that what I have
to say will be held to excuse me.&nbsp; I see, sir," he said,
turning to Mr Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer,
"that you have been examining your desk.&nbsp; I hope that you will
be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it
before."

<p>"The drawer was locked when I left it," said Mr
Longestaffe.&nbsp; "I make no deductions and draw no conclusions,
but the drawer was locked."

<p>"Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to
it."

<p>"No, sir, I found it open.&nbsp; I make no deductions and draw
no conclusions,&mdash;but I left it locked and I found it open."

<p>"I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion," said Dolly;
"and that would be that somebody else had opened it."

<p>"This can answer no purpose at all," said Bideawhile.

<p>"It was but a chance remark," said Melmotte.&nbsp; "I did not
come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to
myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer.&nbsp; As I was
informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought
the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an
offer about this unfortunate business."&nbsp; He paused a moment;
but neither of the three spoke.&nbsp; It did occur to Dolly to ask
them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second thoughts
he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken,
and probably for no good.&nbsp; "Mr Bideawhile, I believe,"
suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head.&nbsp; "If I
remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to
your clients&mdash;"

<p>"Squercum is my lawyer," said Dolly.

<p>"That will make no difference."

<p>"It makes a deal of difference," said Dolly.

<p>"I wrote," continued Melmotte, "offering my bills at three and
six months' date."

<p>"They couldn't be accepted, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"I would have allowed interest.&nbsp; I never have had my bills
refused before."

<p>"You must be aware, Mr Melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the
sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction
in which bills are customarily given and taken.&nbsp; The
understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way.&nbsp;
And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at
once mortgaged by you, of course we became,&mdash;well, I think I may be
justified in saying more than suspicious.&nbsp; It was a
most,&mdash;most&mdash;unusual proceeding.&nbsp; You say you have another
offer to make, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"Of course I have been short of money.&nbsp; I have had enemies
whose business it has been for some time past to run down my
credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in
which it has been known that I have been largely interested.&nbsp;
I tell you the truth openly.&nbsp; When I purchased Pickering I had
no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience
me in the least.&nbsp; When the time came at which I should pay it,
stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell.&nbsp;
Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now.&nbsp;
Accusations are made, false as hell,"&mdash;Mr Melmotte as he spoke
raised his voice and looked round the room "but which at the
present crisis may do me most cruel damage.&nbsp; I have come to
say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been
commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,&mdash;which is
the amount due to these two gentlemen,&mdash;ready for payment on Friday
at noon."

<p>"I have taken no proceedings as yet," said Bideawhile.

<p>"It's Squercum," says Dolly.

<p>"Well, sir," continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, "let me assure
you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be
forthcoming;&mdash;but if not, I cannot produce the money.&nbsp; I
little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such
a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand
pounds.&nbsp; But so it is.&nbsp; To raise that money by Friday, I
shall have to cripple my resources frightfully.&nbsp; It will be
done at a terrible cost.&nbsp; But what Mr Bideawhile says is
true.&nbsp; I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this
property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial
transaction.&nbsp; The money should have been paid,&mdash;and, if you
will now take my word, the money shall be paid.&nbsp; But this
cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor
to-morrow.&nbsp; The accusations brought against me are damnably
false.&nbsp; I do not know with whom they have originated.&nbsp;
Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false.&nbsp; But
unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may
be ruinous to me.&nbsp; Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an
answer."

<p>Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly.&nbsp; Dolly was
in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney
Squercum.&nbsp; It was at Dolly's instance that these proceedings
were being taken.&nbsp; "I, on behalf of my client," said Mr
Bideawhile, "will consent to wait till Friday at noon."

<p>"I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much," said the elder
Longestaffe.

<p>Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person,
but Melmotte's eloquence had moved even him.&nbsp; It was not that
he was sorry for the man, but that at the present moment he
believed him.&nbsp; Though he had been absolutely sure that
Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged,&mdash;and did
not now go so far into the matter as to abandon that
conviction,&mdash;he had been talked into crediting the reasons given
for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that the
money would be paid on Friday.&nbsp; Something of the effect which
Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they now
also had on Dolly Longestaffe.&nbsp; "I'll ask Squercum, you know,"
he said.

<p>"Of course Mr Squercum will act as you instruct him," said
Bideawhile.

<p>"I'll ask Squercum.&nbsp; I'll go to him at once.&nbsp; I can't
do any more than that.&nbsp; And upon my word, Mr Melmotte, you've
given me a great deal of trouble."

<p>Melmotte with a smile apologized.&nbsp; Then it was settled that
they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and
that the payment should then be made,&mdash;Dolly stipulating that as
his father would be attended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended
by Squercum.&nbsp; To this Mr Longestaffe senior yielded with a
very bad grace.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="76"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXVI.&nbsp; Hetta and Her Lover</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son
that she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise
have been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her
daughter.&nbsp; Roger had come up to town and given his opinion,
very freely at any rate with regard to Sir Felix.&nbsp; But Roger
had immediately returned to Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of
assistance and consolation turned naturally to Mr Broune, who came
to see her for a few minutes almost every evening.&nbsp; It had now
become almost a part of Mr Broune's life to see Lady Carbury once
in the day.&nbsp; She told him of the two propositions which Roger
had made: first, that she should fix her residence in some
second-rate French or German town, and that Sir Felix should be
made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should take possession
of Carbury manor for six months.&nbsp; "And where would Mr Carbury
go?" asked Mr Broune.

<p>"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with
himself.&nbsp; There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he
would move to."&nbsp; Mr Broune shook his head.&nbsp; Mr Broune did
not think that an offer so quixotically generous as this should be
accepted.&nbsp; As to the German or French town, Mr Broune said
that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the
thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice
demanded.&nbsp; He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go
to the colonies.&nbsp; "That he might drink himself to death," said
Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr Broune.&nbsp; Sir
Felix in the meantime was still in the doctor's hands
upstairs.&nbsp; He had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but
there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his
face.&nbsp; He was, however, at the present moment better satisfied
to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet
the world.&nbsp; "As to Melmotte," said Mr Broune, "they say now
that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who
have trusted him."

<p>"And the girl?"

<p>"It is impossible to understand it at all.&nbsp; Melmotte was to
have been summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of
fraud;&mdash;but it was postponed.&nbsp; And I was told this morning
that Nidderdale still means to marry the girl.&nbsp; I don't think
anybody knows the truth about it.&nbsp; We shall hold our tongue
about him till we really do know something."&nbsp; The "we" of whom
Mr Broune spoke was, of course, the "Morning Breakfast Table."

<p>But in all this there was nothing about Hetta.&nbsp; Hetta,
however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself
driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from
her lover, written to her from Liverpool.&nbsp; They had never met
since she had confessed her love to him.&nbsp; The first letter she
did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear
what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Roger Carbury
had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs Hurtle was by
no means a fiction,&mdash;but indeed a fact very injurious to her
happiness.&nbsp; Then Paul's second love-letter had come, full of
joy, and love, and contentment,&mdash;with not a word in it which seemed
to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of
a Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Had there been no Mrs Hurtle, the letter would
have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have
answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's
usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord.&nbsp; But it was
impossible that she should now answer it in that strain;&mdash;and it
was equally impossible that she should leave such letters
unanswered.&nbsp; Roger had told her to "ask himself;" and she now
found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer
the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written
account of Mrs Hurtle so that she might know who the lady was, and
whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with her own
happiness.&nbsp; So she wrote to Paul, as follows:

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Welbeck Street, 16 July, 18&mdash;<br>
<br>
MY DEAR PAUL.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>She found that after that which had passed between them she
could not call him "My dear Sir," or "My dear Mr Montague," and
that it must either be "Sir" or "My dear Paul."&nbsp; He was dear
to her,&mdash;very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet
convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an
outcast.&nbsp; Had there been no Mrs Hurtle he would have been her
"Dearest Paul,"&mdash;but she made her choice, and so commenced.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
"MY DEAR PAUL,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A strange report has come round to me
about a lady called Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; I have been told that she is
an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be
your wife.&nbsp; I cannot believe this.&nbsp; It is too horrid to
be true.&nbsp; But I fear,&mdash;I fear there is something true that
will be very very sad for me to hear.&nbsp; It was from my brother
I first heard it,&mdash;who was of course bound to tell me anything he
knew.&nbsp; I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin
Roger.&nbsp; I am sure Roger knows it all;&mdash;but he will not tell
me.&nbsp; He said,&mdash;"Ask himself."&nbsp; And so I ask you.&nbsp; Of
course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about
this.&nbsp; I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very
unhappy.&nbsp; If you cannot come and see me at once, you had
better write.&nbsp; I have told mamma about this letter.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration
which must naturally be attached to it.&nbsp; After some hesitation
she subscribed herself,

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your affectionate friend,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;HENRIETTA CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>"Most affectionately your own Hetta" would have been the form in
which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever
written to him.

<p>Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on
the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street.&nbsp; He had been
quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole
history of Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; He had meant to keep back&mdash;almost
nothing.&nbsp; But it had been impossible for him to do so on that
one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her
successfully.&nbsp; Let any reader who is intelligent in such
matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to
have commenced the story of Mrs Hurtle and to have told it to the
bitter end.&nbsp; Such a story must be postponed for a second or
third interview.&nbsp; Or it may, indeed, be communicated by
letter.&nbsp; When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did
consider whether he should write the story.&nbsp; But there are
many reasons strong against such written communications.&nbsp; A
man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of
his folly,&mdash;so that, in after days, there may be nothing to detect:
so that, should the Mrs Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon
his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to
his beloved one,&mdash;"Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to
you."&nbsp; And then he and his beloved one will be in one cause
together.&nbsp; But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with
a written record of his folly.&nbsp; And then who does not know how
much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his
voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of
love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied
by the Mrs Hurtle of his romance?&nbsp; But the written record must
go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly
perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the
half-expressed truth.&nbsp; The soft falsehoods which would be
sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand
in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in
a letter.&nbsp; I think therefore that Paul Montague did quite
right in hurrying up to London.

<p>He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was
with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in
the dining-room.&nbsp; He had thoroughly made up his mind to this
course.&nbsp; They should know that he had come at once; but he
would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the
presence of Lady Carbury.&nbsp; Then, upstairs, there was a little
discussion.&nbsp; Hetta pleaded her right to see him alone.&nbsp;
She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it with her
mother's consent.&nbsp; Her mother might be sure that she would not
again accept her lover till this story of Mrs Hurtle had been
sifted to the very bottom.&nbsp; But she must herself hear what her
lover had to say for himself.&nbsp; Felix was at the time in the
drawing-room and suggested that he should go down and see Paul
Montague on his sister's behalf;&mdash;but his mother looked at him with
scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather see Mr
Montague herself.&nbsp; Felix had been so cowed by circumstances
that he did not say another word, and Hetta left the room alone.

<p>When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in
his arms.&nbsp; That was a matter of course.&nbsp; She knew it
would be so, and she had prepared herself for it.&nbsp; "Paul," she
said, "let me hear about all this&mdash;first."&nbsp; She sat down at
some distance from him,&mdash;and he found himself compelled to seat
himself at some distance from her.

<p>"And so you have heard of Mrs Hurtle," he said, with a faint
attempt at a smile.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."

<p>"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the
beginning;&mdash;knows the whole history almost as well as I know it
myself.&nbsp; I don't think your brother is as well informed."

<p>"Perhaps not.&nbsp; But&mdash;isn't it a story that&mdash;concerns me?"

<p>"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know
it.&nbsp; And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to
tell it you."

<p>"I will believe anything that you will tell me."

<p>"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you
know all.&nbsp; I was engaged to marry Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Is she a widow?"&mdash;He did not answer this at once.&nbsp; "I
suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;she is a widow.&nbsp; She was divorced."

<p>"Oh, Paul!&nbsp; And she is an American?"

<p>"Yes."

<p>"And you loved her?"

<p>Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish
to be interrogated.&nbsp; "If you will allow me I will tell it you
all from beginning to end."

<p>"Oh, certainly.&nbsp; But I suppose you loved her.&nbsp; If you
meant to marry her you must have loved her."&nbsp; There was a
frown upon Hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made
Paul uneasy.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I loved her once; but I will tell you all."&nbsp; Then he
did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not
be detained.&nbsp; Hetta listened with fair attention,&mdash;not
interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little
words which she spoke were bitter enough.&nbsp; But she heard the
story of the long journey across the American continent, of the
ocean journey before the end of which Paul had promised to make
this woman his wife.&nbsp; "Had she been divorced then?" asked
Hetta,&mdash;"because I believe they get themselves divorced just when
they like."&nbsp; Simple as the question was he could not answer
it.&nbsp; "I could only know what she told me," he said, as he went
on with his story.&nbsp; Then Mrs Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and
he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to
Roger.&nbsp; "Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern
severity.&nbsp; No;&mdash;not then.&nbsp; He had gone back to San
Francisco, and,&mdash;he had not intended to say that the engagement had
been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been
broken off.&nbsp; Then he had written to her on his second return
to England,&mdash;and then she had appeared in London at Mrs Pipkin's
lodgings in Islington.&nbsp; "I can hardly tell you how terrible
that was to me," he said, "for I had by that time become quite
aware that my happiness must depend upon you."&nbsp; He tried the
gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as
violets.&nbsp; Perhaps they were sweet.&nbsp; It is odd how stern a
girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love.&nbsp;
Hetta was very stern.

<p>"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,&mdash;quite the other
day."

<p>Montague had intended to tell all,&mdash;almost all.&nbsp; There was
a something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be
impossible to make Hetta understand, and he thought that that might
be omitted.&nbsp; "It was on account of her health."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;on account of her health.&nbsp; And did you go to the play
with her?"

<p>"I did."

<p>"Was that for her health?"

<p>"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that!&nbsp; Cannot you
understand that when she came here, following me, I could not
desert her?"

<p>"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said
Hetta.&nbsp; "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry
her.&nbsp; It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,&mdash;a
woman who just says that she was divorced.&nbsp; But that is
because I don't understand American ways.&nbsp; And I am sure you
must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to
Lowestoft,&mdash;for her health.&nbsp; That was only a week ago."

<p>"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.

<p>"Oh;&mdash;nearly three weeks!&nbsp; That is not such a very long
time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter.&nbsp; You
were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."

<p>"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."

<p>"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with
you."

<p>"She wanted then to force me to&mdash;to&mdash;to&mdash;.&nbsp; Oh, Hetta, it
is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand.&nbsp; I
do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one
moment, been false to you."

<p>"But why should you be false to her?&nbsp; Why should I step in
and crush all her hopes?&nbsp; I can understand that Roger should
think badly of her because she was&mdash;divorced.&nbsp; Of course he
would.&nbsp; But an engagement is an engagement.&nbsp; You had
better go back to Mrs Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready
to keep your promise."

<p>"She knows now that it is all over."

<p>"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider
it.&nbsp; When she came all the way here from San Francisco after
you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to
Lowestoft&mdash;because of her health, she must be very much attached
to you.&nbsp; And she is waiting here,&mdash;no doubt on purpose for
you.&nbsp; She is a very old friend,&mdash;very old,&mdash;and you ought not
to treat her unkindly.&nbsp; Good bye, Mr Montague.&nbsp; I think
you had better lose no time in going&mdash;back to Mrs Hurtle."&nbsp;
All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her
throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.

<p>"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel
with me!"

<p>"I don't know about quarrelling.&nbsp; I don't wish to quarrel
with any one.&nbsp; But of course we can't be friends when you have
married Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."

<p>"Of course I cannot say anything about that.&nbsp; When they
told me this story I did not believe them.&nbsp; No; I hardly
believed Roger when,&mdash;he would not tell it for he was too
kind,&mdash;but when he would not contradict it.&nbsp; It seemed to be
almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very
same moment.&nbsp; For, after all, Mr Montague, nearly three weeks
is a very short time.&nbsp; That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have
been much above a week before you came to me."

<p>"What does it matter?"

<p>"Oh no; of course not;&mdash;nothing to you.&nbsp; I think I will go
away now, Mr Montague.&nbsp; It was very good of you to come and
tell me all.&nbsp; It makes it so much easier."

<p>"Do you mean to say that&mdash;you are going to&mdash;throw me over?"

<p>"I don't want you to throw Mrs Hurtle over.&nbsp; Good bye."

<p>"Hetta!"

<p>"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me.&nbsp; Good
night, Mr Montague."&nbsp; And so she left him.

<p>Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the
house.&nbsp; He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe
that this affair of Mrs Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta
Carbury.&nbsp; If she could only really know it all, there could be
no such result.&nbsp; He had been true to her from the first moment
in which he had seen her, never swerving from his love.&nbsp; It
was to be supposed that he had loved some woman before; but, as the
world goes, that would not, could not, affect her.&nbsp; But her
anger was founded on the presence of Mrs Hurtle in London,&mdash;which
he would have given half his possessions to have prevented.&nbsp;
But when she did come, was he to have refused to see her?&nbsp;
Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that?&nbsp;
No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs Hurtle;&mdash;but that trouble he
had overcome.&nbsp; And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though
he certainly had never behaved badly to her.

<p>He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home.&nbsp;
Everything that he could do he had done for her.&nbsp; For her sake
he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury.&nbsp; For her sake,&mdash;in order
that he might be effectually free from Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;he had
determined to endure the spring of the wild cat.&nbsp; For her
sake,&mdash;so he told himself,&mdash;he had been content to abide by that
odious railway company, in order that he might if possible preserve
an income on which to support her.&nbsp; And now she told him that
they must part,&mdash;and that only because he had not been cruelly
indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from
America.&nbsp; There was no logic in it, no reason,&mdash;and, as he
thought, very little heart.&nbsp; "I don't want you to throw Mrs
Hurtle over," she had said.&nbsp; Why should Mrs Hurtle be anything
to her?&nbsp; Surely she might have left Mrs Hurtle to fight her
own battles.&nbsp; But they were all against him.&nbsp; Roger
Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of it would be
that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old enough
to be her father!&nbsp; She could not ever really have loved
him.&nbsp; That was the truth.&nbsp; She must be incapable of such
love as was his own for her.&nbsp; True love always forgives.&nbsp;
And here there was really so very little to forgive!&nbsp; Such
were his thoughts as he went to bed that night.&nbsp; But he
probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her
very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three
weeks ago" in close intercourse with another lover of whom he had
hitherto never even heard the name.&nbsp; But then,&mdash;as all the
world knows,&mdash;there is a wide difference between young men and
young women!

<p>Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once
to her own room.&nbsp; Thither she was soon followed by her mother,
whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door.&nbsp;
"Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury.&nbsp; Hetta was in
tears,&mdash;or very nigh to tears,&mdash;struggling to repress them, and
struggling almost successfully.&nbsp; "You have found that what we
told you about that woman was all true."

<p>"Enough of it was true," said Hetta, who, angry as she was with
her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for
disturbing her bliss.

<p>"What do you mean by that, Hetta?&nbsp; Had you not better speak
to me openly?"

<p>"I say, mamma, that enough was true.&nbsp; I do not know how to
speak more openly.&nbsp; I need not go into all the miserable story
of the woman.&nbsp; He is like other men, I suppose.&nbsp; He has
entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is
tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,&mdash;and
to begin with somebody else."

<p>"Roger Carbury is very different."

<p>"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that.&nbsp;
It seems to me that you do not understand in the least."

<p>"I say he is not like that."

<p>"Not in the least.&nbsp; Of course I know that he is not in the
least like that."

<p>"I say that he can be trusted."

<p>"Of course he can be trusted.&nbsp; Who doubts it?"

<p>"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no
cause for any alarm."

<p>"Mamma," said Hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that
way?&nbsp; As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to
another!&nbsp; Oh, mamma, how can you propose it?&nbsp; Nothing on
earth will ever induce me to be more to Roger Carbury than I am
now."

<p>"You have told Mr Montague that he is not to come here again?"

<p>"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I
mean."

<p>"That it is all over?"&nbsp; Hetta made no reply.&nbsp; "Hetta,
I have a right to ask that, and I have a right to expect a
reply.&nbsp; I do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly
about Mr Montague."

<p>"I have not behaved badly.&nbsp; I have told you
everything.&nbsp; I have done nothing that I am ashamed of."

<p>"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly.&nbsp;
He has come here to you,&mdash;with unexampled treachery to your cousin
Roger&mdash;"

<p>"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.

<p>"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says
that she is divorced from her husband in America!&nbsp; Have you
told him that you will see him no more?"

<p>"He understood that."

<p>"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."

<p>"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself.&nbsp; I have told him
very plainly."&nbsp; Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied
for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="77"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXVII.&nbsp; Another Scene in Bruton Street</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Mr Melmotte made his promise to Mr Longestaffe and to
Dolly, in the presence of Mr Bideawhile, that he would, on the next
day but one, pay to them a sum of fifty thousand pounds, thereby
completing, satisfactorily as far as they were concerned, the
purchase of the Pickering property, he intended to be as good as
his word.&nbsp; The reader knows that he had resolved to face the
Longestaffe difficulty,&mdash;that he had resolved that at any rate he
would not get out of it by sacrificing the property to which he had
looked forward as a safe haven when storms should come.&nbsp; But,
day by day, every resolution that he made was forced to undergo
some change.&nbsp; Latterly he had been intent on purchasing a
noble son-in-law with this money,&mdash;still trusting to the chapter
of chances for his future escape from the Longestaffe and other
difficulties.&nbsp; But Squercum had been very hard upon him; and
in connexion with this accusation as to the Pickering property,
there was another, which he would be forced to face also,
respecting certain property in the East of London, with which the
reader need not much trouble himself specially, but in reference to
which it was stated that he had induced a foolish old gentleman to
consent to accept railway shares in lieu of money.&nbsp; The old
gentleman had died during the transaction, and it was asserted that
the old gentleman's letter was hardly genuine.&nbsp; Melmotte had
certainly raised between twenty and thirty thousand pounds on the
property, and had made payment for it in stock which was now
worth&mdash;almost nothing at all.&nbsp; Melmotte thought that he might
face this matter successfully if the matter came upon him
single-handed;&mdash;but in regard to the Longestaffes he considered
that now, at this last moment, he had better pay for Pickering.

<p>The property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds
was really his own.&nbsp; There could be no doubt about that.&nbsp;
It had never been his intention to make it over to his
daughter.&nbsp; When he had placed it in her name, he had done so
simply for security,&mdash;feeling that his control over his only
daughter would be perfect and free from danger.&nbsp; No girl
apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud her
father could have crept quietly about a father's house.&nbsp; Nor
did he now think that she would disobey him when the matter was
explained to her.&nbsp; Heavens and earth!&nbsp; That he should be
robbed by his own child,&mdash;robbed openly, shamefully, with brazen
audacity!&nbsp; It was impossible.&nbsp; But still he had felt the
necessity of going about this business with some little care.&nbsp;
It might be that she would disobey him if he simply sent for her
and bade her to affix her signature here and there.&nbsp; He
thought much about it and considered that it would be wise that his
wife should be present on the occasion, and that a full explanation
should be given to Marie, by which she might be made to understand
that the money had in no sense become her own.&nbsp; So he gave
instructions to his wife when he started into the city that
morning; and when he returned, for the sake of making his offer to
the Longestaffes, he brought with him the deeds which it would be
necessary that Marie should sign, and he brought also Mr Croll, his
clerk, that Mr Croll might witness the signature.

<p>When he left the Longestaffes and Mr Bideawhile he went at once
to his wife's room.&nbsp; "Is she here?" he asked.

<p>"I will send for her.&nbsp; I have told her."

<p>"You haven't frightened her?"

<p>"Why should I frighten her?&nbsp; It is not very easy to
frighten her, Melmotte.&nbsp; She is changed since these young men
have been so much about her."

<p>"I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her.&nbsp; Bid
her come now."&nbsp; This was said in French.&nbsp; Then Madame
Melmotte left the room, and Melmotte arranged a lot of papers in
order upon a table.&nbsp; Having done so, he called to Croll, who
was standing on the landing-place, and told him to seat himself in
the back drawing-room till he should be called.&nbsp; Melmotte then
stood with his back to the fireplace in his wife's sitting-room,
with his hands in his pockets, contemplating what might be the
incidents of the coming interview.&nbsp; He would be very
gracious,&mdash;affectionate if it were possible,&mdash;and, above all
things, explanatory.&nbsp; But, by heavens, if there were continued
opposition to his demand,&mdash;to his just demand,&mdash;if this girl should
dare to insist upon exercising her power to rob him, he would not
then be affectionate nor gracious!&nbsp; There was some little
delay in the coming of the two women, and he was already beginning
to lose his temper when Marie followed Madame Melmotte into the
room.&nbsp; He at once swallowed his rising anger with an
effort.&nbsp; He would put a constraint upon himself The affection
and the graciousness should be all there,&mdash;as long as they might
secure the purpose in hand.

<p>"Marie," he began, "I spoke to you the other day about some
property which for certain purposes was placed in your name just as
we were leaving Paris."

<p>"Yes, papa."

<p>"You were such a child then,&mdash;I mean when we left Paris,&mdash;that
I could hardly explain to you the purpose of what I did."

<p>"I understood it, papa."

<p>"You had better listen to me, my dear.&nbsp; I don't think you
did quite understand it.&nbsp; It would have been very odd if you
had, as I never explained it to you."

<p>"You wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble."

<p>This was so true that Melmotte did not know how at the moment to
contradict the assertion.&nbsp; And yet he had not intended to talk
of the possibility of trouble.&nbsp; "I wanted to lay aside a large
sum of money which should not be liable to the ordinary
fluctuations of commercial enterprise."

<p>"So that nobody could get at it."

<p>"You are a little too quick, my dear."

<p>"Marie, why can't you let your papa speak?" said Madame
Melmotte.

<p>"But of course, my dear," continued Melmotte, "I had no idea of
putting the money beyond my own reach.&nbsp; Such a transaction is
very common; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of
some one who is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure
that he can put full confidence.&nbsp; And it is customary to
choose a young person, as there will then be less danger of the
accident of death.&nbsp; It was for these reasons, which I am sure
that you will understand, that I chose you.&nbsp; Of course the
property remained exclusively my own."

<p>"But it is really mine," said Marie.

<p>"No, miss; it was never yours," said Melmotte, almost bursting
out into anger, but restraining himself.&nbsp; "How could it become
yours, Marie?&nbsp; Did I ever make you a gift of it?"

<p>"But I know that it did become mine,&mdash;legally."

<p>"By a quibble of law,&mdash;yes; but not so as to give you any right
to it.&nbsp; I always draw the income."

<p>"But I could stop that, papa,&mdash;and if I were married, of course
it would be stopped."

<p>Then, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred to
Melmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child
of his might be stiff-necked.&nbsp; "As we are thinking of your
marriage," he said, "it is necessary that a change should be
made.&nbsp; Settlements must be drawn for the satisfaction of Lord
Nidderdale and his father.&nbsp; The old Marquis is rather hard
upon me, but the marriage is so splendid that I have
consented.&nbsp; You must now sign these papers in four or five
places.&nbsp; Mr Croll is here, in the next room, to witness your
signature, and I will call him."

<p>"Wait a moment, papa."

<p>"Why should we wait?"

<p>"I don't think I will sign them."

<p>"Why not sign them?&nbsp; You can't really suppose that the
property is your own.&nbsp; You could not even get it if you did
think so."

<p>"I don't know how that may be; but I had rather not sign
them.&nbsp; If I am to be married, I ought not to sign anything
except what he tells me."

<p>"He has no authority over you yet.&nbsp; I have authority over
you.&nbsp; Marie, do not give more trouble.&nbsp; I am very much
pressed for time.&nbsp; Let me call in Mr Croll."

<p>"No, papa," she said.

<p>Then came across his brow that look which had probably first
induced Marie to declare that she would endure to be "cut to
pieces," rather than to yield in this or that direction.&nbsp; The
lower jaw squared itself and the teeth became set, and the nostrils
of his nose became extended,&mdash;and Marie began to prepare herself to
be "cut to pieces."&nbsp; But he reminded himself that there was
another game which he had proposed to play before he resorted to
anger and violence.&nbsp; He would tell her how much depended on
her compliance.&nbsp; Therefore he relaxed the frown,&mdash;as well as
he knew how, and softened his face towards her, and turned again to
his work.&nbsp; "I am sure, Marie, that you will not refuse to do
this when I explain to you its importance to me.&nbsp; I must have
that property for use in the city to-morrow, or&mdash;I shall be
ruined."&nbsp; The statement was very short, but the manner in
which he made it was not without effect.

<p>"Oh!" shrieked his wife.

<p>"It is true.&nbsp; These harpies have so beset me about the
election that they have lowered the price of every stock in which I
am concerned, and have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they
cannot be sold at all.&nbsp; I don't like bringing my troubles home
from the city; but on this occasion I cannot help it.&nbsp; The sum
locked up here is very large, and I am compelled to use it.&nbsp;
In point of fact it is necessary to save us from
destruction."&nbsp; This he said, very slowly, and with the utmost
solemnity.

<p>"But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to
be married," rejoined Marie.

<p>A liar has many points to his favour,&mdash;but he has this against
him, that unless he devote more time to the management of his lies
than life will generally allow, he cannot make them tally.&nbsp;
Melmotte was thrown back for a moment, and almost felt that the
time for violence had come.&nbsp; He longed to be at her that he
might shake the wickedness, and the folly, and the ingratitude out
of her.&nbsp; But he once more condescended to argue and to
explain.&nbsp; "I think you misunderstood me, Marie.&nbsp; I meant
you to understand that settlements must be made, and that of course
I must get my own property back into my own hands before anything
of that kind can be done.&nbsp; I tell you once more, my dear, that
if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use that property the
first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined.&nbsp; Everything will be
gone."

<p>"This can't be gone," said Marie, nodding her head at the
papers.

<p>"Marie,&mdash;do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined?&nbsp; I have
done a great deal for you."

<p>"You turned away the only person I ever cared for," said Marie.

<p>"Marie, how can you be so wicked?&nbsp; Do as your papa bids
you," said Madame Melmotte.

<p>"No!' said Melmotte.&nbsp; 'She does not care who is ruined,
because we saved her from that reprobate."

<p>"She will sign them now," said Madame Melmotte.

<p>"No;&mdash;I will not sign them," said Marie.&nbsp; "If I am to be
married to Lord Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to
sign nothing without telling him.&nbsp; And if the property was
once made to be mine, I don't think I ought to give it up again
because papa says that he is going to be ruined.&nbsp; I think
that's a reason for not giving it up again."

<p>"It isn't yours to give.&nbsp; It's mine," said Melmotte
gnashing his teeth.

<p>"Then you can do what you like with it without my signing," said
Marie.

<p>He paused a moment, and then laying his hand gently upon her
shoulder, he asked her yet once again.&nbsp; His voice was changed,
and was very hoarse.&nbsp; But he still tried to be gentle with
her.&nbsp; "Marie," he said, "will you do this to save your father
from destruction?"

<p>But she did not believe a word that he said to her.&nbsp; How
could she believe him?&nbsp; He had taught her to regard him as her
natural enemy, making her aware that it was his purpose to use her
as a chattel for his own advantage, and never allowing her for a
moment to suppose that aught that he did was to be done for her
happiness.&nbsp; And now, almost in a breath, he had told her that
this money was wanted that it might be settled on her and the man
to whom she was to be married, and then that it might be used to
save him from instant ruin.&nbsp; She believed neither one story
nor the other.&nbsp; That she should have done as she was desired
in this matter can hardly be disputed.&nbsp; The father had used
her name because he thought that he could trust her.&nbsp; She was
his daughter and should not have betrayed his trust.&nbsp; But she
had steeled herself to obstinacy against him in all things.&nbsp;
Even yet, after all that had passed, although she had consented to
marry Lord Nidderdale, though she had been forced by what she had
learned to despise Sir Felix Carbury, there was present to her an
idea that she might escape with the man she really loved.&nbsp; But
any such hope could depend only on the possession of the money
which she now claimed as her own.&nbsp; Melmotte had endeavoured to
throw a certain supplicatory pathos into the question he had asked
her; but, though he was in some degree successful with his voice,
his eyes and his mouth and his forehead still threatened her.&nbsp;
He was always threatening her.&nbsp; All her thoughts respecting
him reverted to that inward assertion that he might "cut her to
pieces" if he liked.&nbsp; He repeated his question in the pathetic
strain.&nbsp; "Will you do this now,&mdash;to save us all from
ruin?"&nbsp; But his eyes still threatened her.

<p>"No;" she said, looking up into his face as though watching for
the personal attack which would be made upon her; "no, I won't."

<p>"Marie!" exclaimed Madame Melmotte.

<p>She glanced round for a moment at her pseudo-mother with
contempt.&nbsp; "No;" she said.&nbsp; "I don't think I ought,&mdash;and
I won't."

<p>"You won't!" shouted Melmotte.&nbsp; She merely shook her
head.&nbsp; "Do you mean that you, my own child, will attempt to
rob your father just at the moment you can destroy him by your
wickedness?"&nbsp; She shook her head but said no other word.

<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<font size="-1">
"Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet."<br>
<br>
"Let not Medea with unnatural rage<br>
&nbsp;Slaughter her mangled infants on the stage."
</font>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>

<p>Nor will I attempt to harrow my readers by a close description
of the scene which followed.&nbsp; Poor Marie.&nbsp; That cutting
her up into pieces was commenced after a most savage fashion.&nbsp;
Marie crouching down hardly uttered a sound.&nbsp; But Madame
Melmotte frightened beyond endurance screamed at the top of her
voice,&mdash;"Ah, Melmotte, tu la tueras!"&nbsp; And then she
tried to drag him from his prey.&nbsp; "Will you sign them now?"
said Melmotte, panting.&nbsp; At that moment Croll, frightened by
the screams, burst into the room.&nbsp; It was perhaps not the
first time that he had interfered to save Melmotte from the effects
of his own wrath.

<p>"Oh, Mr Melmotte, vat is de matter?" asked the clerk.&nbsp;
Melmotte was out of breath and could hardly tell his story.&nbsp;
Marie gradually recovered herself; and crouched, cowering, in the
corner of a sofa, by no means vanquished in spirit, but with a
feeling that the very life had been crushed out of her body.&nbsp;
Madame Melmotte was standing weeping copiously, with her
handkerchief up to her eyes.&nbsp; "Will you sign the papers?"
Melmotte demanded.&nbsp; Marie, lying as she was, all in a heap,
merely shook her head.&nbsp; "Pig!" said Melmotte,&mdash;"wicked,
ungrateful pig."

<p>"Ah, Ma'am-moiselle," said Croll, "you should oblige your
fader."

<p>"Wretched, wicked girl" said Melmotte, collecting the papers
together.&nbsp; Then he left the room, and followed by Croll
descended to the study, whence the Longestaffes and Mr Bideawhile
had long since taken their departure.

<p>Madame Melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some
minutes spoke never a word.&nbsp; Marie lay on the sofa, all in a
heap, with her hair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing
hard, but uttering no sobs and shedding no tears.&nbsp; The
stepmother,&mdash;if she might so be called,&mdash;did not think of
attempting to persuade where her husband had failed.&nbsp; She
feared Melmotte so thoroughly, and was so timid in regard to her
own person, that she could not understand the girl's courage.&nbsp;
Melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as Satan,&mdash;whom she
never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived him, and was
constantly detected in her deceptions.&nbsp; Marie seemed to her to
have all her father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much of
his power.&nbsp; At the present moment she did not dare to tell the
girl that she had been wrong.&nbsp; But she had believed her
husband when he had said that destruction was coming, and had
partly believed him when he declared that the destruction might be
averted by Marie's obedience.&nbsp; Her life had been passed in
almost daily fear of destruction.&nbsp; To Marie the last two years
of splendour had been so long that they had produced a feeling of
security.&nbsp; But to the elder woman the two years had not
sufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and never
for a moment had she felt herself to be secure.&nbsp; At last she
asked the girl what she would like to have done for her.&nbsp; "I
wish he had killed me," Marie said, slowly dragging herself up from
the sofa, and retreating without another word to her own room.

<p>In the meantime another scene was being acted in the room
below.&nbsp; Melmotte after he reached the room hardly made a
reference to his daughter,&mdash;merely saying that nothing would
overcome her wicked obstinacy.&nbsp; He made no allusion to his own
violence, nor had Croll the courage to expostulate with him now
that the immediate danger was over.&nbsp; The Great Financier again
arranged the papers, just as they had been laid out before,&mdash;as
though he thought that the girl might be brought down to sign them
there.&nbsp; And then he went on to explain to Croll what he had
wanted to have done,&mdash;how necessary it was that the thing should be
done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that in such a crisis of
his life he should be hampered, impeded,&mdash;he did not venture to his
clerk to say ruined,&mdash;by the ill-conditioned obstinacy of a
girl!&nbsp; He explained very fully how absolutely the property was
his own, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it
from him!&nbsp; How monstrous in its injustice was the present
position of things!&nbsp; In all this Croll fully agreed.&nbsp;
Then Melmotte went on to declare that he would not feel the
slightest scruple in writing Marie's signature to the papers
himself.&nbsp; He was the girl's father and was justified in acting
for her.&nbsp; The property was his own property, and he was
justified in doing with it as he pleased.&nbsp; Of course he would
have no scruple in writing his daughter's name.&nbsp; Then he
looked up at the clerk.&nbsp; The clerk again assented,&mdash;after a
fashion, not by any means with the comfortable certainty with which
he had signified his accordance with his employer's first
propositions.&nbsp; But he did not, at any rate, hint any
disapprobation of the step which Melmotte proposed to take.&nbsp;
Then Melmotte went a step farther, and explained that the only
difficulty in reference to such a transaction would be that the
signature of his daughter would be required to be corroborated by
that of a witness before he could use it.&nbsp; Then he again
looked up at Croll;&mdash;but on this occasion Croll did not move a
muscle of his face.&nbsp; There certainly was no assent.&nbsp;
Melmotte continued to look at him; but then came upon the old
clerk's countenance a stern look which amounted to very strong
dissent.&nbsp; And yet Croll had been conversant with some
irregular doings in his time, and Melmotte knew well the extent of
Croll's experience.&nbsp; Then Melmotte made a little remark to
himself.&nbsp; "He knows that the game is pretty well over."&nbsp;
"You had better return to the city now," he said aloud.&nbsp; "I
shall follow you in half an hour.&nbsp; It is quite possible that I
may bring my daughter with me.&nbsp; If I can make her understand
this thing I shall do so.&nbsp; In that case I shall want you to be
ready."&nbsp; Croll again smiled, and again assented, and went his
way.

<p>But Melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter.&nbsp; As
soon as Croll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk
and drawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter
and of this German clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin
tissue paper.&nbsp; He commenced his present operation by bolting
his door and pulling down the blinds.&nbsp; He practised the two
signatures for the best part of an hour.&nbsp; Then he forged them
on the various documents;&mdash;and, having completed the operation,
refolded them, placed them in a locked bag of which he had always
kept the key in his purse, and then, with the bag in his hand, was
taken in his brougham into the city.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="78"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXVIII.&nbsp; Miss Longestaffe Again at Caversham</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>All this time Mr Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London
while the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at
Caversham.&nbsp; He had taken his younger daughter home on the day
after his visit to Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with
her had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr Brehgert as a
thing utterly out of the question.&nbsp; Georgiana had made one
little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel.&nbsp;
"Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.

<p>"What's hard?&nbsp; I think a great many things are hard; but I
have to bear them."

<p>"You can do nothing for me."

<p>"Do nothing for you!&nbsp; Haven't you got a home to live in,
and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in,&mdash;and books to
read if you choose to read them?&nbsp; What do you expect?"

<p>"You know, papa, that's nonsense."

<p>"How do you dare to tell me that what I say is nonsense?"

<p>"Of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but
what's to be the end of it?&nbsp; Sophia, I suppose, is going to be
married."

<p>"I am happy to say she is,&mdash;to a most respectable young man and
a thorough gentleman."

<p>"And Dolly has his own way of going on."

<p>"You have nothing to do with Adolphus."

<p>"Nor will he have anything to do with me.&nbsp; If I don't marry
what's to become of me?&nbsp; It isn't that Mr Brehgert is the sort
of man I should choose."

<p>"Do not mention his name to me."

<p>"But what am I to do?&nbsp; You give up the house in town, and
how am I to see people?&nbsp; It was you sent me to Mr Melmotte."

<p>"I didn't send you to Mr Melmotte."

<p>"It was at your suggestion I went there, papa.&nbsp; And of
course I could only see the people he had there.&nbsp; I like nice
people as well as anybody."

<p>"There's no use talking any more about it."

<p>"I don't see that.&nbsp; I must talk about it, and think about
it too.&nbsp; If I can put up with Mr Brehgert I don't see why you
and mamma should complain."

<p>"A Jew!"

<p>"People don't think about that as they used to, papa.&nbsp; He
has a very fine income, and I should always have a house in&mdash;"

<p>Then Mr Longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped
her for that time.&nbsp; "Look here," he said, "if you mean to tell
me that you will marry that man without my consent, I can't prevent
it.&nbsp; But you shall not marry him as my daughter.&nbsp; You
shall be turned out of my house, and I will never have your name
pronounced in my presence again.&nbsp; It is disgusting,
degrading,&mdash;disgraceful!"&nbsp; And then he left her.

<p>On the next morning before he started for Caversham he did see
Mr Brehgert; but he told Georgiana nothing of the interview, nor
had she the courage to ask him.&nbsp; The objectionable name was
not mentioned again in her father's hearing, but there was a sad
scene between herself, Lady Pomona, and her sister.&nbsp; When Mr
Longestaffe and his younger daughter arrived, the poor mother did
not go down into the hall to meet her child,&mdash;from whom she had
that morning received the dreadful tidings about the Jew.&nbsp; As
to these tidings she had as yet heard no direct condemnation from
her husband.&nbsp; The effect upon Lady Pomona had been more
grievous even than that made upon the father.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe
had been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage was
out of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed,
and could take upon himself to see the Jew with the object of
breaking off the engagement.&nbsp; But poor Lady Pomona was
helpless in her sorrow.&nbsp; If Georgiana chose to marry a Jew
tradesman she could not help it.&nbsp; But such an occurrence in
the family would, she felt, be to her as though the end of all
things had come.&nbsp; She could never again hold up her head,
never go into society, never take pleasure in her powdered
footmen.&nbsp; When her daughter should have married a Jew, she
didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look even her
neighbours Mrs Yeld and Mrs Hepworth in the face.&nbsp; Georgiana
found no one in the hall to meet her, and dreaded to go to her
mother.&nbsp; She first went with her maid to her own room, and
waited there till Sophia came to her.&nbsp; As she sat pretending
to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regain her
courage.&nbsp; Why need she be afraid of anybody?&nbsp; Why, at any
rate, should she be afraid of other females?&nbsp; Had she not
always been dominant over her mother and sister?&nbsp; "Oh,
Georgey," said Sophia, "this is wonderful news!"

<p>"I suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be
married except yourself."

<p>"No;&mdash;but such a very odd match!"

<p>"Look here, Sophia.&nbsp; If you don't like it, you need not
talk about it.&nbsp; We shall always have a house in town, and you
will not.&nbsp; If you don't like to come to us, you needn't.&nbsp;
That's about all."

<p>"George wouldn't let me go there at all," said Sophia.

<p>"Then&mdash;George&mdash;had better keep you at home at Toodlam.&nbsp;
Where's mamma?&nbsp; I should have thought somebody might have come
and met me to say a word to me, instead of allowing me to creep
into the house like this."

<p>"Mamma isn't at all well; but she's up in her own room.&nbsp;
You mustn't be surprised, Georgey, if you find mamma very&mdash;very
much cut up about this."&nbsp; Then Georgiana understood that she
must be content to stand all alone in the world, unless she made up
her mind to give up Mr Brehgert.

<p>"So I've come back," said Georgiana, stooping down and kissing
her mother.

<p>"Oh, Georgiana; oh, Georgiana!" said Lady Pomona, slowly raising
herself and covering her face with one of her hands.&nbsp; "This is
dreadful.&nbsp; It will kill me.&nbsp; It will indeed.&nbsp; I
didn't expect it from you."

<p>"What is the good of all that, mamma?"

<p>"It seems to me that it can't be possible.&nbsp; It's
unnatural.&nbsp; It's worse than your wife's sister.&nbsp; I'm sure
there's something in the Bible against it.&nbsp; You never would
read your Bible, or you wouldn't be going to do this."

<p>"Lady Julia Start has done just the same thing,&mdash;and she goes
everywhere."

<p>"What does your papa say?&nbsp; I'm sure your papa won't allow
it.&nbsp; If he's fixed about anything, it's about the Jews.&nbsp;
An accursed race;&mdash;think of that, Georgiana;&mdash;expelled from
Paradise."

<p>"Mamma, that's nonsense."

<p>"Scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who
anybody is.&nbsp; And it's only since those nasty Radicals came up
that they have been able to sit in Parliament."

<p>"One of the greatest judges in the land is a Jew," said
Georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case.

<p>"Nothing that the Radicals can do can make them anything else
but what they are.&nbsp; I'm sure that Mr Whitstable, who is to be
your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him."

<p>Now if there was anybody whom Georgiana Longestaffe had despised
from her youth upwards it was George Whitstable.&nbsp; He had been
a laughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded
as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of
rural dullness since he had become a man.&nbsp; He certainly was
neither beautiful nor bright;&mdash;but he was a Conservative squire
born of Tory parents.&nbsp; Nor was he rich;&mdash;having but a moderate
income, sufficient to maintain a moderate country house and no
more.&nbsp; When first there came indications that Sophia intended
to put up with George Whitstable, the more ambitious sister did not
spare the shafts of her scorn.&nbsp; And now she was told that
George Whitstable would not speak to her future husband!&nbsp; She
was not to marry Mr Brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, among
others, upon George Whitstable!&nbsp; This was not to be endured.

<p>"Then Mr Whitstable may keep himself at home at Toodlam and not
trouble his head at all about me or my husband.&nbsp; I'm sure I
shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may
think about me.&nbsp; George Whitstable knows as much about London
as I do about the moon."

<p>"He has always been in county society," said Sophia, "and was
staying only the other day at Lord Cantab's."

<p>"Then there were two fools together," said Georgiana, who at
this moment was very unhappy.

<p>"Mr Whitstable is an excellent young man, and I am sure he will
make your sister happy; but as for Mr Brehgert,&mdash;I can't bear to
have his name mentioned in my hearing."

<p>"Then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned.&nbsp; At any rate
it shan't be mentioned again by me."&nbsp; Having so spoken,
Georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and
sister again till she came down into the drawing-room before
dinner.

<p>Her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her
feelings.&nbsp; She presumed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert,
but did not in the least know what had passed between them.&nbsp;
It might be that her father had been so decided in his objection as
to induce Mr Brehgert to abandon his intention,&mdash;and if this were
so, there could be no reason why she should endure the misery of
having the Jew thrown in her face.&nbsp; Among them all they had
made her think that she would never become Mrs Brehgert.&nbsp; She
certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to
live and die for Brehgert.&nbsp; She was almost sick of the thing
herself.&nbsp; But she could not back out of it so as to obliterate
all traces of the disgrace.&nbsp; Even if she should not ultimately
marry the Jew, it would be known that she had been engaged to a
Jew,&mdash;and then it would certainly be said afterwards that the Jew
had jilted her.&nbsp; She was thus vacillating in her mind, not
knowing whether to go on with Brehgert or to abandon him.&nbsp;
That evening Lady Pomona retired immediately after dinner, being
"far from well."&nbsp; It was of course known to them all
that Mr Brehgert was her ailment.&nbsp; She was accompanied by her
elder daughter, and Georgiana was left with her father.&nbsp; Not a
word was spoken between them.&nbsp; He sat behind his newspaper
till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in
that big room.&nbsp; It seemed to her that even the servants
treated her with disdain.&nbsp; Her own maid had already given her
notice.&nbsp; It was manifestly the intention of her family to
ostracise her altogether.&nbsp; Of what service would it be to her
that Lady Julia Goldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she
herself were to be left without a single Christian friend?&nbsp;
Would a life passed exclusively among the Jews content even her
lessened ambition?&nbsp; At ten o'clock she kissed her father's
head and went to bed.&nbsp; Her father grunted less audibly than
usual under the operation.&nbsp; She had always given herself
credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her courage
would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as these.

<p>On the next day her father returned to town, and the three
ladies were left alone.&nbsp; Great preparations were going on for
the Whitstable wedding.&nbsp; Dresses were being made and linen
marked, and consultations held,&mdash;from all which things Georgiana
was kept quite apart.&nbsp; The accepted lover came over to lunch,
and was made as much of as though the Whitstables had always kept a
town house.&nbsp; Sophy loomed so large in her triumph and
happiness, that it was not to be borne.&nbsp; All Caversham treated
her with a new respect.&nbsp; And yet if Toodlam was a couple of
thousand a year, it was all it was:&mdash;and there were two unmarried
sisters!&nbsp; Lady Pomona went half into hysterics every time she
saw her younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive
parent.&nbsp; Oh, heavens;&mdash;was Mr Brehgert with his two houses
worth all this?&nbsp; A feeling of intense regret for the things
she was losing came over her.&nbsp; Even Caversham, the Caversham
of old days which she had hated, but in which she had made herself
respected and partly feared by everybody about the place,&mdash;had
charms for her which seemed to her delightful now that they were
lost for ever.&nbsp; Then she had always considered herself to be
the first personage in the house,&mdash;superior even to her
father;&mdash;but now she was decidedly the last.

<p>Her second evening was worse even than the first.&nbsp; When Mr
Longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room
between the library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the
family consisted only of Georgiana.&nbsp; In the course of the
evening she went upstairs and calling her sister out into the
passage demanded to be told why she was thus deserted.&nbsp; "Poor
mamma is very ill," said Sophy.

<p>"I won't stand it if I'm to be treated like this," said
Georgiana.&nbsp; "I'll go away somewhere."

<p>"How can I help it, Georgey?&nbsp; It's your own doing.&nbsp; Of
course you must have known that you were going to separate yourself
from us."

<p>On the next morning there came a dispatch from Mr
Longestaffe,&mdash;of what nature Georgey did not know as it was
addressed to Lady Pomona.&nbsp; But one enclosure she was allowed
to see.&nbsp; "Mamma," said Sophy, "thinks you ought to know how
Dolly feels about it."&nbsp; And then a letter from Dolly to his
father was put into Georgey's hands.&nbsp; The letter was as
follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR FATHER,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Can it be true that Georgey is
thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar Jew, old Brehgert?&nbsp;
The fellows say so; but I can't believe it.&nbsp; I'm sure you
wouldn't let her.&nbsp; You ought to lock her up.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours affectionately,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A. LONGESTAFFE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>Dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they
were, they always contained advice or instruction, such as should
come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a
father.&nbsp; This letter had not been received with a
welcome.&nbsp; Nevertheless the head of the family had thought it
worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it to Caversham in
order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter.

<p>And so Dolly had said that she ought to be locked up!&nbsp;
She'd like to see somebody do it!&nbsp; As soon as she had read her
brother's epistle she tore it into fragments and threw it away in
her sister's presence.&nbsp; "How can mamma be such a hypocrite as
to pretend to care what Dolly says?&nbsp; Who doesn't know that
he's an idiot?&nbsp; And papa has thought it worth his while to
send that down here for me to see!&nbsp; Well, after that I must
say that I don't much care what papa does."

<p>"I don't see why Dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as
anybody else," said Sophy.

<p>"As well as George Whitstable?&nbsp; As far as stupidness goes
they are about the same.&nbsp; But Dolly has a little more
knowledge of the world."

<p>"Of course we all know, Georgiana," rejoined the elder sister,
"that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the
commercial classes, and especially among a certain sort."

<p>"I've done with you all," said Georgey, rushing out of the
room.&nbsp; "I'll have nothing more to do with any one of you."

<p>But it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her
family!&nbsp; A young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea;
or come and claim his property after twenty years.&nbsp; A young
man may demand an allowance, and has almost a right to live
alone.&nbsp; The young male bird is supposed to fly away from the
paternal nest.&nbsp; But the daughter of a house is compelled to
adhere to her father till she shall get a husband.&nbsp; The only
way in which Georgey could "have done" with them all at Caversham
would be by trusting herself to Mr Brehgert, and at the present
moment she did not know whether Mr Brehgert did or did not consider
himself as engaged to her.

<p>That day also passed away with ineffable tedium.&nbsp; At one
time she was so beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her
assistance to her sister in reference to the wedding
garments.&nbsp; In spite of the very bitter words which had been
spoken in the morning she would have done so had Sophy afforded her
the slightest opportunity.&nbsp; But Sophy was heartlessly cruel in
her indifference.&nbsp; In her younger days she had had her bad
things, and now,&mdash;with George Whitstable by her side,&mdash;she meant to
have good things, the goodness of which was infinitely enhanced by
the badness of her sister's things.&nbsp; She had been so greatly
despised that the charm of despising again was irresistible.&nbsp;
And she was able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by
telling herself that duty required her to show implacable
resistance to such a marriage as this which her sister
contemplated.&nbsp; Therefore Georgiana dragged out another day,
not in the least knowing what was to be her fate.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="79"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXIX.&nbsp; The Brehgert Correspondence</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mr Longestaffe had brought his daughter down to Caversham on a
Wednesday.&nbsp; During the Thursday and Friday she had passed a
very sad time, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to
marry Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; Her father had declared to her that he
would break off the match, and she believed that he had seen Mr
Brehgert with that purpose.&nbsp; She had certainly given no
consent, and had never hinted to any one of the family an idea that
she was disposed to yield.&nbsp; But she felt that, at any rate
with her father, she had not adhered to her purpose with tenacity,
and that she had allowed him to return to London with a feeling
that she might still be controlled.&nbsp; She was beginning to be
angry with Mr Brehgert, thinking that he had taken his dismissal
from her father without consulting her.&nbsp; It was necessary that
something should be settled, something known.&nbsp; Life such as
she was leading now would drive her mad.&nbsp; She had all the
disadvantages of the Brehgert connection and none of the
advantages.&nbsp; She could not comfort herself with thinking of
the Brehgert wealth and the Brehgert houses, and yet she was living
under the general ban of Caversham on account of her Brehgert
associations.&nbsp; She was beginning to think that she herself
must write to Mr Brehgert,&mdash;only she did not know what to say to
him.

<p>But on the Saturday morning she got a letter from Mr
Brehgert.&nbsp; It was handed to her as she was sitting at
breakfast with her sister,&mdash;who at that moment was triumphant with
a present of gooseberries which had been sent over from
Toodlam.&nbsp; The Toodlam gooseberries were noted throughout
Suffolk, and when the letters were being brought in Sophia was
taking her lover's offering from the basket with her own fair
hands.&nbsp; "Well!" Georgey had exclaimed, "to send a pottle of
gooseberries to his lady love across the country!&nbsp; Who but
George Whitstable would do that?"

<p>"I dare say you get nothing but gems and gold," Sophy
retorted.&nbsp; "I don't suppose that Mr Brehgert knows what a
gooseberry is."&nbsp; At that moment the letter was brought in, and
Georgiana knew the writing.&nbsp; "I suppose that's from Mr
Brehgert," said Sophy.

<p>"I don't think it matters much to you who it's from."&nbsp; She
tried to be composed and stately, but the letter was too important
to allow of composure, and she retired to read it in privacy.

<p>The letter was as follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
"MY DEAR GEORGIANA,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your father came to me the day after
I was to have met you at Lady Monogram's party.&nbsp; I told him
then that I would not write to you till I had taken a day or two to
consider what he said to me;&mdash;and also that I thought it better
that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to
you.&nbsp; He has now repeated what he said at our first interview,
almost with more violence; for I must say that I think he has
allowed himself to be violent when it was surely unnecessary.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The long and short of it is
this.&nbsp; He altogether disapproves of your promise to marry
me.&nbsp; He has given three reasons;&mdash;first that I am in trade;
secondly that I am much older than you, and have a family; and
thirdly that I am a Jew.&nbsp; In regard to the first I can hardly
think that he is earnest.&nbsp; I have explained to him that my
business is that of a banker; and I can hardly conceive it to be
possible that any gentleman in England should object to his
daughter marrying a banker, simply because the man is a
banker.&nbsp; There would be a blindness of arrogance in such a
proposition of which I think your father to be incapable.&nbsp;
This has merely been added in to strengthen his other
objections.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As to my age, it is just
fifty-one.&nbsp; I do not at all think myself too old to be married
again.&nbsp; Whether I am too old for you is for you to judge,&mdash;as
is also that question of my children who, of course, should you
become my wife will be to some extent a care upon your
shoulders.&nbsp; As this is all very serious you will not, I hope,
think me wanting in gallantry if I say that I should hardly have
ventured to address you if you had been quite a young girl.&nbsp;
No doubt there are many years between us;&mdash;and so I think there
should be.&nbsp; A man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman of
the same standing as himself.&nbsp; But the question is one for the
lady to decide,&mdash;and you must decide it now.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As to my religion, I acknowledge the
force of what your father says,&mdash;though I think that a gentleman
brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in
language less likely to give offence.&nbsp; However I am a man not
easily offended; and on this occasion I am ready to take what he
has said in good part.&nbsp; I can easily conceive that there
should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in
religion.&nbsp; I am indifferent to it myself.&nbsp; I shall not
interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, I
suppose, will you with me.&nbsp; Should you have a daughter or
daughters I am quite willing that they should be brought up subject
to your influence.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>There was a plain-speaking in this which made Georgiana look
round the room as though to see whether any one was watching her as
she read it.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
But no doubt your father objects to me specially because I am a
Jew.&nbsp; If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on
the subject of religion.&nbsp; On this matter as well as on others
it seems to me that your father has hardly kept pace with the
movements of the age.&nbsp; Fifty years ago, whatever claim a Jew
might have to be as well considered as a Christian, he certainly
was not so considered.&nbsp; Society was closed against him, except
under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high
position.&nbsp; But that has been altered.&nbsp; Your father does
not admit the change; but I think he is blind to it, because he
does not wish to see.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I say all this more as defending
myself than as combating his views with you.&nbsp; It must be for
you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern
you.&nbsp; He has told me, after a rather peremptory fashion, that
I have behaved badly to him and to his family because I did not go
to him in the first instance when I thought of obtaining the honour
of an alliance with his daughter.&nbsp; I have been obliged to tell
him that in this matter I disagree with him entirely, though in so
telling him I endeavoured to restrain myself from any appearance of
warmth.&nbsp; I had not the pleasure of meeting you in his house,
nor had I any acquaintance with him.&nbsp; And again, at the risk
of being thought uncourteous, I must say that you are to a certain
degree emancipated by age from that positive subordination to which
a few years ago you probably submitted without a question.&nbsp; If
a gentleman meets a lady in society, as I met you in the home of
our friend Mr Melmotte, I do not think that the gentleman is to be
debarred from expressing his feelings because the lady may possibly
have a parent.&nbsp; Your father, no doubt with propriety, had left
you to be the guardian of yourself, and I cannot submit to be
accused of improper conduct because, finding you in that condition,
I availed myself of it.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And now, having said so much, I must
leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself.&nbsp; I beg
you to understand that I do not at all wish to hold you to a
promise merely because the promise has been given.&nbsp; I readily
acknowledge that the opinion of your family should be considered by
you, though I will not admit that I was bound to consult that
opinion before I spoke to you.&nbsp; It may well be that your
regard for me or your appreciation of the comforts with which I may
be able to surround you, will not suffice to reconcile you to such
a breach from your own family as your father, with much repetition,
has assured me will be inevitable.&nbsp; Take a day or two to think
of this and turn it well over in your mind.&nbsp; When I last had
the happiness of speaking to you, you seemed to think that your
parents might raise objections, but that those objections would
give way before an expression of your own wishes.&nbsp; I was
flattered by your so thinking; but, if I may form any judgment from
your father's manner, I must suppose that you were mistaken.&nbsp;
You will understand that I do not say this as any reproach to
you.&nbsp; Quite the contrary.&nbsp; I think your father is
irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that be
should be so.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As to my own feelings they remain
exactly as they were when I endeavoured to explain them to
you.&nbsp; Though I do not find myself to be too old to marry, I do
think myself too old to write love letters.&nbsp; I have no doubt
you believe me when I say that I entertain a most sincere affection
for you; and I beseech you to believe me in saying further that
should you become my wife it shall be the study of my life to make
you happy.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It is essentially necessary that I
should allude to one other matter, as to which I have already told
your father what I will now tell you.&nbsp; I think it probable
that within this week I shall find myself a loser of a very large
sum of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad treatment
of me I will the more readily forgive because he was the means of
making me known to you.&nbsp; This you must understand is private
between you and me, though I have thought it proper to inform your
father.&nbsp; Such loss, if it fall upon me, will not interfere in
the least with the income which I have proposed to settle upon you
for your use after my death; and, as your father declares that in
the event of your marrying me he will neither give to you nor
bequeath to you a shilling, he might have abstained from telling me
to my face that I was a bankrupt merchant when I myself told him of
my loss.&nbsp; I am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to
become so.&nbsp; Nor will this loss at all interfere with my
present mode of living.&nbsp; But I have thought it right to inform
you of it, because, if it occur,&mdash;as I think it will,&mdash;I shall not
deem it right to keep a second establishment probably for the next
two or three years.&nbsp; But my house at Fulham and my stables
there will be kept up just as they are at present.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I have now told you everything which
I think it is necessary you should know, in order that you may
determine either to adhere to or to recede from your
engagement.&nbsp; When you have resolved you will let me know,&mdash;but
a day or two may probably be necessary for your decision.&nbsp; I
hope I need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a
happy man.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;EZEKIEL BREHGERT.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>This very long letter puzzled Georgey a good deal, and left her,
at the time of reading it, very much in doubt as to what she would
do.&nbsp; She could understand that it was a plain-spoken and
truth-telling letter.&nbsp; Not that she, to herself, gave it
praise for those virtues; but that it imbued her unconsciously with
a thorough belief.&nbsp; She was apt to suspect deceit in other
people;&mdash;but it did not occur to her that Mr Brehgert had written a
single word with an attempt to deceive her.&nbsp; But the
single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogether thrown
away upon her.&nbsp; She never said to herself, as she read it,
that she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a
Jew, though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and with a
family, because he was an honest man.&nbsp; She did not see that
the letter was particularly sensible;&mdash;but she did allow herself to
be pained by the total absence of romance.&nbsp; She was annoyed at
the first allusion to her age, and angry at the second; and yet she
had never supposed that Brehgert had taken her to be younger than
she was.&nbsp; She was well aware that the world in general
attributes more years to unmarried women than they have lived, as a
sort of equalising counter-weight against the pretences which young
women make on the other side, or the lies which are told on their
behalf.&nbsp; Nor had she wished to appear peculiarly young in his
eyes.&nbsp; But, nevertheless, she regarded the reference to be
uncivil,&mdash;perhaps almost butcher-like,&mdash;and it had its effect upon
her.&nbsp; And then the allusion to the "daughter or daughters"
troubled her.&nbsp; She told herself that it was vulgar,&mdash;just what
a butcher might have said.&nbsp; And although she was quite
prepared to call her father the most irrational, the most
prejudiced, and most ill-natured of men, yet she was displeased
that Mr Brehgert should take such a liberty with him.&nbsp; But the
passage in Mr Brehgert's letter which was most distasteful to her
was that which told her of the loss which he might probably incur
through his connection with Melmotte.&nbsp; What right had he to
incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping his
engagements with her?&nbsp; The town-house had been the great
persuasion, and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that
there was to be no town-house for three years.&nbsp; When she read
this she felt that she ought to be indignant, and for a few moments
was minded to sit down without further consideration and tell the
man with considerable scorn that she would have nothing more to say
to him.

<p>But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness.&nbsp;
How would she have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven
by her father and mother for the vile sin which she had
contemplated, she should consent to fill a common bridesmaid place
at the nuptials of George Whitstable!&nbsp; And what would then be
left to her in life?&nbsp; This episode of the Jew would make it
quite impossible for her again to contest the question of the
London house with her father.&nbsp; Lady Pomona and Mrs George
Whitstable would be united with him against her.&nbsp; There would
be no "season" for her, and she would be nobody at Caversham.&nbsp;
As for London, she would hardly wish to go there!&nbsp; Everybody
would know the story of the Jew.&nbsp; She thought that she could
have plucked up courage to face the world as the Jew's wife, but
not as the young woman who had wanted to marry the Jew and had
failed.&nbsp; How would her future life go with her, should she now
make up her mind to retire from the proposed alliance?&nbsp; If she
could get her father to take her abroad at once, she would do it;
but she was not now in a condition to make any terms with her
father.&nbsp; As all this gradually passed through her mind, she
determined that she would so far take Mr Brehgert's advice as to
postpone her answer till she had well considered the matter.

<p>She slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a few
questions.&nbsp; "Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?"

<p>"In what way, my dear?"&nbsp; Lady Pomona's voice was not
gracious, as she was free from that fear of her daughter's
ascendancy which had formerly affected her.

<p>"Well;&mdash;I suppose he must have some plan."

<p>"You must explain yourself.&nbsp; I don't know why he should
have any particular plan."

<p>"Will he go to London next year?"

<p>"That depends upon money, I suppose.&nbsp; What makes you ask?"

<p>"Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced.&nbsp;
Everybody must see that.&nbsp; I'm sure you do, mamma.&nbsp; The
long and short of it is this;&mdash;if I give up my engagement, will he
take us abroad for a year?"

<p>"Why should he?"

<p>"You can't suppose that I should be very comfortable in
England.&nbsp; If we are to remain here at Caversham, how am I to
hope ever to get settled?"

<p>"Sophy is doing very well."

<p>"Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;&mdash;thank
God."&nbsp; She had meant to be humble and supplicating, but she
could not restrain herself from the use of that one shaft.&nbsp; "I
don't mean but what Sophy may be very happy, and I am sure that I
hope she will.&nbsp; But that won't do me any good.&nbsp; I should
be very unhappy here."

<p>"I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going
abroad," said Lady Pomona, "and I don't see why your papa is to be
taken away from his own home.&nbsp; He likes Caversham."

<p>"Then I am to be sacrificed on every side," said Georgey,
stalking out of the room.&nbsp; But still she could not make up her
mind what letter she would write to Mr Brehgert, and she slept upon
it another night.

<p>On the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though
when she sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind
what she would say.&nbsp; But she did get it written, and here it
is.


<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Caversham, Monday.<br>
<br>
MY DEAR MR BREHGERT,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As you told me not to hurry, I have
taken a little time to think about your letter.&nbsp; Of course it
would be very disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and
everybody.&nbsp; And if I do do so, I'm sure somebody ought to be
very grateful.&nbsp; But papa has been very unfair in what he has
said.&nbsp; As to not asking him, it could have been of no good,
for of course he would be against it.&nbsp; He thinks a great deal
of the Longestaffe family, and so, I suppose, ought I.&nbsp; But
the world does change so quick that one doesn't think of anything
now as one used to do.&nbsp; Anyway, I don't feel that I'm bound to
do what papa tells me just because he says it.&nbsp; Though I'm not
quite so old as you seem to think, I'm old enough to judge for
myself,&mdash;and I mean to do so.&nbsp; You say very little about
affection, but I suppose I am to take all that for granted.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I don't wonder at papa being annoyed
about the loss of the money.&nbsp; It must be a very great sum when
it will prevent your having a house in London,&mdash;as you
agreed.&nbsp; It does make a great difference, because, of course,
as you have no regular place in the country, one could only see
one's friends in London.&nbsp; Fulham is all very well now and
then, but I don't think I should like to live at Fulham all the
year through.&nbsp; You talk of three years, which would be
dreadful.&nbsp; If as you say it will not have any lasting effect,
could you not manage to have a house in town?&nbsp; If you can do
it in three years, I should think you could do it now.&nbsp; I
should like to have an answer to this question.&nbsp; I do think so
much about being the season in town!<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As for the other parts of your
letter, I knew very well beforehand that papa would be unhappy
about it.&nbsp; But I don't know why I'm to let that stand in my
way when so very little is done to make me happy.&nbsp; Of course
you will write to me again, and I hope you will say something
satisfactory about the house in London.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours always sincerely,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;GEORGIANA LONGESTAFFE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>It probably never occurred to Georgey that Mr Brehgert would
under any circumstances be anxious to go back from his
engagement.&nbsp; She so fully recognised her own value as a
Christian lady of high birth and position giving herself to a
commercial Jew, that she thought that under any circumstances Mr
Brehgert would be only too anxious to stick to his bargain.&nbsp;
Nor had she any idea that there was anything in her letter which
could probably offend him.&nbsp; She thought that she might at any
rate make good her claim to the house in London; and that as there
were other difficulties on his side, he would yield to her on this
point.&nbsp; But as yet she hardly knew Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; He did
not lose a day in sending to her a second letter.&nbsp; He took her
letter with him to his office in the city, and there he answered it
without a moment's delay.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
No. 7, St. Cuthbert's Court, London,<br>
Tuesday, July 16, 18&mdash;.<br>
<br>
MY DEAR MISS LONGESTAFFE,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You say it would be very disagreeable
to you to quarrel with your papa and mamma; and as I agree with
you, I will take your letter as concluding our intimacy.&nbsp; I
should not, however, be dealing quite fairly with you or with
myself if I gave you to understand that I felt myself to be coerced
to this conclusion simply by your qualified assent to your parents'
views.&nbsp; It is evident to me from your letter that you would
not wish to be my wife unless I can supply you with a house in town
as well as with one in the country.&nbsp; But this for the present
is out of my power.&nbsp; I would not have allowed my losses to
interfere with your settlement because I had stated a certain
income; and must therefore to a certain extent have compromised my
children.&nbsp; But I should not have been altogether happy till I
had replaced them in their former position, and must therefore have
abstained from increased expenditure till I had done so.&nbsp; But
of course I have no right to ask you to share with me the
discomfort of a single home.&nbsp; I may perhaps add that I had
hoped that you would have looked to your happiness to another
source, and that I will bear my disappointment as best I may.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As you may perhaps under these
circumstances be unwilling that I should wear the ring you gave me,
I return it by post.&nbsp; I trust you will be good enough to keep
the trifle you were pleased to accept from me, in remembrance of
one who will always wish you well.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours sincerely,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;EZEKIEL BREHGERT.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>And so it was all over!&nbsp; Georgey, when she read this
letter, was very indignant at her lover's conduct.&nbsp; She did
not believe that her own letter had at all been of a nature to
warrant it.&nbsp; She had regarded herself as being quite sure of
him, and only so far doubting herself, as to be able to make her
own terms because of such doubts.&nbsp; And now the Jew had
rejected her!&nbsp; She read this last letter over and over again,
and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart of
hearts she had intended to marry him.&nbsp; There would have been
inconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the
sorrow on the other side.&nbsp; Now she saw nothing before her but
a long vista of Caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled
upon by her father and mother, and scorned by Mr and Mrs George
Whitstable.

<p>She got up and walked about the room thinking of
vengeance.&nbsp; But what vengeance was possible to her?&nbsp;
Everybody belonging to her would take the part of the Jew in that
which he had now done.&nbsp; She could not ask Dolly to beat him;
nor could she ask her father to visit him with a stern frown of
paternal indignation.&nbsp; There could be no revenge.&nbsp; For a
time,&mdash;only a few seconds,&mdash;she thought that she would write to Mr
Brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about this
termination of their engagement.&nbsp; This, no doubt, would have
been an appeal to the Jew for mercy;&mdash;and she could not quite
descend to that.&nbsp; But she would keep the watch and chain he
had given her, and which somebody had told her had not cost less
than a hundred and fifty guineas.&nbsp; She could not wear them, as
people would know whence they had come; but she might exchange them
for jewels which she could wear.

<p>At lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of
the afternoon she thought it best to inform her mother.&nbsp;
"Mamma," she said, "as you and papa take it so much to heart, I
have broken off everything with Mr Brehgert."

<p>"Of course it must be broken off," said Lady Pomona.&nbsp; This
was very ungracious,&mdash;so much so that Georgey almost flounced out of
the room.&nbsp; "Have you heard from the man?" asked her ladyship.

<p>"I have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all
settled.&nbsp; I thought that you would have said something kind to
me."&nbsp; And the unfortunate young woman burst out into tears.

<p>"It was so dreadful," said Lady Pomona;&mdash;"so very
dreadful.&nbsp; I never heard of anything so bad.&nbsp; When young
what's-his-name married the tallow-chandler's daughter I thought it
would have killed me if it had been Dolly; but this was worse than
that.&nbsp; Her father was a methodist."

<p>"They had neither of them a shilling of money," said Georgey
through her tears.

<p>"And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt.&nbsp;
But it's all over?"

<p>"Yes, mamma."

<p>"And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget
it.&nbsp; It has been very hard upon George Whitstable, because of
course everybody has known it through the county.&nbsp; I once
thought he would have been off, and I really don't know that we
could have said anything."&nbsp; At that moment Sophy entered the
room.&nbsp; "It's all over between Georgiana and the&mdash;man," said
Lady Pomona, who hardly saved herself from stigmatising him by a
further reference to his religion.

<p>"I knew it would be," said Sophia.

<p>"Of course it could never have really taken place," said their
mother.

<p>"And now I beg that nothing more may be said about it," said
Georgiana.&nbsp; "I suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?"

<p>"You must send him back his watch and chain, Georgey," said
Sophia.

<p>"What business is that of yours?"

<p>"Of course she must.&nbsp; Her papa would not let her keep it."

<p>To such a miserable depth of humility had the younger Miss
Longestaffe been brought by her ill-considered intimacy with the
Melmottes!&nbsp; Georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable
episode in her life, always attributed her grief to the scandalous
breach of compact of which her father had been guilty.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="80"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXX.&nbsp; Ruby Prepares for Service</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Our poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to durance
vile after his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was
locked up for the remainder of the night.&nbsp; This indignity did
not sit so heavily on his spirits as it might have done on those of
a quicker nature.&nbsp; He was aware that he had not killed the
baronet, and that he had therefore enjoyed his revenge without the
necessity of "swinging for it at Bury."&nbsp; That in itself was a
comfort to him.&nbsp; Then it was a great satisfaction to think
that he had "served the young man out" in the actual presence of
his Ruby.&nbsp; He was not prone to give himself undue credit for
his capability and willingness to knock his enemies about; but he
did think that Ruby must have observed on this occasion that he was
the better man of the two.&nbsp; And, to John, a night in the
station-house was no great personal inconvenience.&nbsp; Though he
was very proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very
much for such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned.&nbsp;
Nor did he feel any disgrace from being locked up for the
night.&nbsp; He was very good-humoured with the policeman, who
seemed perfectly to understand his nature, and was as meek as a
child when the lock was turned upon him.&nbsp; As he lay down on
the hard bench, he comforted himself with thinking that Ruby would
surely never care any more for the "baronite" since she had seen
him go down like a cur without striking a blow.&nbsp; He thought a
good deal about Ruby, but never attributed any blame to her for her
share in the evils that had befallen him.

<p>The next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was
told at an early hour of the day that he was again free.&nbsp; Sir
Felix was not much the worse for what had happened to him, and had
refused to make any complaint against the man who had beaten
him.&nbsp; John Crumb shook hands cordially with the policeman who
had had him in charge, and suggested beer.&nbsp; The constable,
with regrets, was forced to decline, and bade adieu to his late
prisoner with the expression of a hope that they might meet again
before long.&nbsp; "You come down to Bungay," said John, "and I'll
show you how we live there."

<p>From the police-office he went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house, and
at once asked for Ruby.&nbsp; He was told that Ruby was out with
the children, and was advised both by Mrs Pipkin and Mrs Hurtle not
to present himself before Ruby quite yet.&nbsp; "You see," said Mrs
Pipkin, "she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young
gentleman."

<p>"But I wasn't;&mdash;not particular.&nbsp; Lord love you, he ain't a
hair the wuss."

<p>"You let her alone for a time," said Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "A little
neglect will do her good."

<p>"Maybe," said John,&mdash;"only I wouldn't like her to have it
bad.&nbsp; You'll let her have her wittles regular, Mrs Pipkin."

<p>It was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should
not extend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave,
receiving an assurance from Mrs Hurtle that he should be summoned
to town as soon as it was thought that his presence there would
serve his purposes; and with loud promises repeated to each of the
friendly women that as soon as ever a "line should be dropped" he
would appear again upon the scene, he took Mrs Pipkin aside, and
suggested that if there were "any hextras," he was ready to pay for
them.&nbsp; Then he took his leave without seeing Ruby, and went
back to Bungay.

<p>When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John
Crumb had called.&nbsp; "I thought as he was in prison," said Ruby.

<p>"What should they keep him in prison for?" said Mrs
Pipkin.&nbsp; "He hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have
done.&nbsp; That young man was dragging you about as far as I can
make out, and Mr Crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to
prevent it.&nbsp; Of course they weren't going to keep him in
prison for that.&nbsp; Prison indeed!&nbsp; It isn't him as ought
to be in prison."

<p>"And where is he now, aunt?"

<p>"Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming
here any more of a fool's errand.&nbsp; He must have seen now
pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't.&nbsp; Beauty is
but skin deep, Ruby."

<p>"John Crumb'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him
encouragement," said Ruby.&nbsp; "If I'd hold up my finger he'd
come."

<p>"Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do
you go about your work."&nbsp; Ruby didn't like to be told to go
about her work, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door,
and scolded the servant girl, and then sat down to cry.&nbsp; What
was she to do with herself now?&nbsp; She had an idea that Felix
would not come back to her after the treatment he had
received;&mdash;and a further idea that if he did come he was not, as
she phrased it to herself, "of much account."&nbsp; She certainly
did not like him the better for having been beaten, though, at the
time, she had been disposed to take his part.&nbsp; She did not
believe that she would ever dance with him again.&nbsp; That had
been the charm of her life in London, and that was now all
over.&nbsp; And as for marrying her,&mdash;she began to feel certain
that he did not intend it.&nbsp; John Crumb was a big, awkward,
dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whom Ruby thought it impossible
that a girl should be in love.&nbsp; Love and John Crumb were poles
asunder.&nbsp; But&mdash;!&nbsp; Ruby did not like wheeling the
perambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to
go about her work.&nbsp; What Ruby did like was being in love and
dancing; but if all that must come to an end, then there would be a
question whether she could not do better for herself, than by
staying with her aunt and wheeling the perambulator about
Islington.

<p>Mrs Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and
having but little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to
the interest of John Crumb.&nbsp; A man more unlike one of her own
countrymen she had never seen.&nbsp; "I wonder whether he has any
ideas at all in his head," she had said to Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; Mrs
Pipkin had replied that Mr Crumb had certainly a very strong idea
of marrying Ruby Ruggles.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle had smiled, thinking
that Mrs Pipkin was also very unlike her own countrywomen.&nbsp;
But she was very kind to Mrs Pipkin, ordering rice-puddings on
purpose that the children might eat them, and she was quite
determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.

<p>In order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs Pipkin
into confidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to
Ruby.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene,
but the plan was altogether Mrs Hurtle's plan.&nbsp; On the day
following John's return to Bungay Mrs Pipkin summoned Ruby into the
back parlour, and thus addressed her.&nbsp; "Ruby, you know, this
must come to an end now."

<p>"What must come to an end?"

<p>"You can't stay here always, you know."

<p>"I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages."

<p>"I can't do with more than one girl,&mdash;and there's the keep if
there isn't wages.&nbsp; Besides, there's other reasons.&nbsp; Your
grandfather won't have you back there; that's certain."

<p>"I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so."

<p>"But you must go somewheres.&nbsp; You didn't come to stay here
always,&mdash;nor I couldn't have you.&nbsp; You must go into service."

<p>"I don't know anybody as'd have me," said Ruby.

<p>"You must put a 'vertisement into the paper.&nbsp; You'd better
say as nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children.&nbsp;
And I must give you a character;&mdash;only I shall say just the
truth.&nbsp; You mustn't ask much wages just at first."&nbsp; Ruby
looked very sorrowful, and the tears were near her eyes.&nbsp; The
change from the glories of the music hall was so startling and so
oppressive!&nbsp; "It has got to be done sooner or later, so you
may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon."

<p>"You'r going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin."

<p>"Well;&mdash;if that's turning out, I am.&nbsp; You see you never
would be said by me as though I was your mistress.&nbsp; You would
go out with that rapscallion when I bid you not.&nbsp; Now when
you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to,
and it will be best for you.&nbsp; You've had your swing, and now
you see you've got to pay for it.&nbsp; You must earn your bread,
Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover and your
grandfather."

<p>There was no possible answer to this, and therefore the
necessary notice was put into the paper,&mdash;Mrs Hurtle paying for its
insertion.&nbsp; "Because, you know," said Mrs Hurtle, "she must
stay here really, till Mr Crumb comes and takes her away."&nbsp;
Mrs Pipkin expressed her opinion that Ruby was a "baggage" and John
Crumb a "soft."&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin was perhaps a little jealous at
the interest which her lodger took in her niece, thinking perhaps
that all Mrs Hurtle's sympathies were due to herself.

<p>Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the
mothers of children who wanted nursemaids.&nbsp; The answers which
she had received had not come from the highest members of the
aristocracy, and the houses which she visited did not appal her by
their splendour.&nbsp; Many objections were made to her.&nbsp; A
character from an aunt was objectionable.&nbsp; Her ringlets were
objectionable.&nbsp; She was a deal too flighty-looking.&nbsp; She
spoke up much too free.&nbsp; At last one happy mother of five
children offered to take her on approval for a month, at &pound;12
a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself.&nbsp; This
was slavery;&mdash;abject slavery.&nbsp; And she too, who had been the
beloved of a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a
better house than that into which she was to go as a servant,&mdash;if
she would only hold up her finger!&nbsp; But the place was
accepted, and with broken-hearted sobbings Ruby prepared herself
for her departure from Aunt Pipkin's roof.

<p>"I hope you like your place, Ruby," Mrs Hurtle said on the
afternoon of her last day.

<p>"Indeed then I don't like it at all.&nbsp; They're the ugliest
children you ever see, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones."

<p>"And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross."

<p>"It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?"

<p>"I don't know as I've done anything out of the way."

<p>"Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a
young man and then to throw him over?&nbsp; All this has come
because you wouldn't keep your word to Mr Crumb.&nbsp; Only for
that your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house."

<p>"He didn't turn me out.&nbsp; I ran away.&nbsp; And it wasn't
along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the
hair of my head."

<p>"But he was angry with you about Mr Crumb.&nbsp; When a young
woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from
her word."&nbsp; No doubt Mrs Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine,
thought that the same law might be laid down with propriety for the
conduct of young men.&nbsp; "Of course you have brought trouble on
yourself.&nbsp; I am sorry you don't like the place.&nbsp; I'm
afraid you must go to it now."

<p>"I am agoing,&mdash;I suppose," said Ruby, probably feeling that if
she could but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be
open for her a way of escape.

<p>"I shall write and tell Mr Crumb where you are placed."

<p>"Oh, Mrs Hurtle, don't.&nbsp; What should you write to him
for?&nbsp; It ain't nothing to him."

<p>"I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken."

<p>"You can forget that, Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Pray don't write.&nbsp;
I don't want him to know as I'm in service."

<p>"I must keep my promise.&nbsp; Why shouldn't he know?&nbsp; I
don't suppose you care much now what he hears about you."

<p>"Yes I do.&nbsp; I wasn't never in service before, and I don't
want him to know."

<p>"What harm can it do you?"

<p>"Well, I don't want him to know.&nbsp; It's such a come down,
Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"There is nothing to be ashamed of in that.&nbsp; What you have
to be ashamed of is jilting him.&nbsp; It was a bad thing to
do;&mdash;wasn't it, Ruby?"

<p>"I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs Hurtle; only why couldn't he say
what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it
for him?&nbsp; What would you feel, Mrs Hurtle, if a man was to
come and say it all out of another man's mouth?"

<p>"I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at
last.&nbsp; You know he meant it."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I did know that."

<p>"And you know he means it now?"

<p>"I'm not so sure about that.&nbsp; He's gone back to Bungay, and
he isn't no good at writing letters no more than at speaking.&nbsp;
Oh,&mdash;he'll go and get somebody else now."

<p>"Of course he will if he hears nothing about you.&nbsp; I think
I'd better tell him.&nbsp; I know what would happen."

<p>"What would happen, Mrs Hurtle?"

<p>"He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a
place you'd got.&nbsp; Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if
you'll say the word.&nbsp; I'll have him up here at once and you
shan't go to Mrs Buggins'."&nbsp; Ruby dropped her hands and stood
still, staring at Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "I will.&nbsp; But if he comes
you mustn't behave this time as you did before."

<p>"But I'm to go to Mrs Buggins' to-morrow."

<p>"We'll send to Mrs Buggins and tell her to get somebody
else.&nbsp; You're breaking your heart about going there;&mdash;are you
not?"

<p>"I don't like it, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"And this man will make you mistress of his house.&nbsp; You say
he isn't good at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an
honester man in the whole course of my life, or one who I think
would treat a woman better.&nbsp; What's the use of a glib tongue
if there isn't a heart with it?&nbsp; What's the use of a lot of
tinsel and lacker, if the real metal isn't there?&nbsp; Sir Felix
Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't think now he was a
very fine fellow."

<p>"He was so beautiful, Mrs Hurtle!"

<p>"But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom.&nbsp; Well,
Ruby, you have one more choice left you.&nbsp; Shall it be John
Crumb or Mrs Buggins?"

<p>"He wouldn't come, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Leave that to me, Ruby.&nbsp; May I bring him if I can?"&nbsp;
Then Ruby in a very low whisper told Mrs Hurtle, that if she
thought proper she might bring John Crumb back again.&nbsp; "And
there shall be no more nonsense?"

<p>"No," whispered Ruby.

<p>On that same night a letter was sent to Mrs Buggins, which Mrs
Hurtle also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen
circumstances prevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement
she had made; to which a verbal answer was returned that Ruby
Ruggles was an impudent hussey.&nbsp; And then Mrs Hurtle in her
own name wrote a short note to Mr John Crumb.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR MR CRUMB,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby
Ruggles all that you desire.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours faithfully,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WINIFRED HURTLE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>"She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done
for young women in my time," said Mrs Pipkin, "and I'm not at all
so sure that she has deserved it."

<p>"John Crumb will think she has."

<p>"John Crumb's a fool;&mdash;and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no
patience with girls like them.&nbsp; Yes; it is for the best; and
as for you, Mrs Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've
been.&nbsp; I hope, Mrs Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away
because this is all done."
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="81"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXI.&nbsp; Mr Cohenlupe Leaves London</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Dolly Longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to Fetter
Lane immediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he
had consented to wait two days longer for the payment of his
money.&nbsp; This was on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the
payment being Friday.&nbsp; He had undertaken that, on his part,
Squercum should be made to desist from further immediate
proceedings, and he could only carry out his word by visiting
Squercum.&nbsp; The trouble to him was very great, but he began to
feel that he almost liked it.&nbsp; The excitement was nearly as
good as that of loo.&nbsp; Of course it was a "horrid bore,"&mdash;this
having to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a London
July day.&nbsp; Of course it was a "horrid bore,"&mdash;this doubt about
his money.&nbsp; And it went altogether against the grain with him
that he should be engaged in any matter respecting the family
property in agreement with his father and Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; But
there was an importance in it that sustained him amidst his
troubles.&nbsp; It is said that if you were to take a man of
moderate parts and make him Prime Minister out of hand, he might
probably do as well as other Prime Ministers, the greatness of the
work elevating the man to its own level.&nbsp; In that way Dolly
was elevated to the level of a man of business, and felt and
enjoyed his own capacity.&nbsp; "By George!"&nbsp; It depended
chiefly upon him whether such a man as Melmotte should or should
not be charged before the Lord Mayor.&nbsp; "Perhaps I oughtn't to
have promised," he said to Squercum, sitting in the lawyer's office
on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth.&nbsp; He
preferred Squercum to any other lawyer he had met because
Squercum's room was untidy and homely, because there was nothing
awful about it, and because he could sit in what position he
pleased, and smoke all the time.

<p>"Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me," said Squercum.

<p>"You weren't there to be asked, old fellow."

<p>"Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my
absence," said Squercum indignantly.&nbsp; "It was a very
unprofessional thing on his part, and so I shall take an
opportunity of telling him."

<p>"It was you told me to go."

<p>"Well;&mdash;yes.&nbsp; I wanted you to see what they were at in that
room; but I told you to look on and say nothing."

<p>"I didn't speak half-a-dozen words."

<p>"You shouldn't have spoken those words.&nbsp; Your father then
is quite clear that you did not sign the letter?"

<p>"Oh, yes;&mdash;the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's
honest."

<p>"That's a matter of course," said the lawyer.&nbsp; "All men are
honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own
side.&nbsp; Bideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced
close to prevent his getting the better of you.&nbsp; Melmotte has
promised to pay the money on Friday, has he?"

<p>"He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street."

<p>"I don't believe a word of it;&mdash;and I'm sure Bideawhile
doesn't.&nbsp; In what shape will he bring it?&nbsp; He'll give you
a cheque dated on Monday, and that'll give him two days more, and
then on Monday there'll be a note to say the money can't be lodged
till Wednesday.&nbsp; There should be no compromising with such a
man.&nbsp; You only get from one mess into another.&nbsp; I told
you neither to do anything or to say anything."

<p>"I suppose we can't help ourselves now.&nbsp; You're to be there
on Friday.&nbsp; I particularly bargained for that.&nbsp; It you're
there, there won't be any more compromising."

<p>Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at
all flattering to Dolly's vanity,&mdash;which might have caused offence
had not there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney
and the young man.&nbsp; As it was, Dolly replied to everything
that was said with increased flattery.&nbsp; "If I was a sharp
fellow like you, you know," said Dolly, "of course I should get
along better; but I ain't, you know."&nbsp; It was then settled
that they should meet each other, and also meet Mr Longestaffe
senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve o'clock on Friday
morning in Bruton Street.

<p>Squercum was by no means satisfied.&nbsp; He had busied himself
in this matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty
nearly got to the bottom of that affair about the houses in the
East, and had managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had
died to employ him.&nbsp; As to the Pickering property he had not a
doubt on the subject.&nbsp; Old Longestaffe had been induced by
promises of wonderful aid and by the bribe of a seat at the Board
of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to give up the
title-deeds of the property,&mdash;as far as it was in his power to give
them up; and had endeavoured to induce Dolly to do so also.&nbsp;
As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his work by ingenuity,
with which the reader is acquainted.&nbsp; All this was perfectly
clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a most
attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier.&nbsp;
It was pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him
on.&nbsp; He regarded Melmotte as a grand swindler,&mdash;perhaps the
grandest that the world had ever known,&mdash;and he could conceive no
greater honour than the detection, successful prosecution, and
ultimate destroying of so great a man.&nbsp; To have hunted down
Melmotte would make Squercum as great almost as Melmotte
himself.&nbsp; But he felt himself to have been unfairly hampered
by his own client.&nbsp; He did not believe that the money would be
paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte.&nbsp; He had heard a
good many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out of
the question that Melmotte should raise the money,&mdash;but there were
various ways in which a man might escape.

<p>It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded
Melmotte into the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to sign
the deeds.&nbsp; He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that
things were not looking as well as they used to look.&nbsp; Croll
had for many years been true to his patron, having been, upon the
whole, very well paid for such truth.&nbsp; There had been times
when things had gone badly with him, but he had believed in
Melmotte, and, when Melmotte rose, had been rewarded for his
faith.&nbsp; Mr Croll at the present time had little investments of
his own, not made under his employer's auspices, which would leave
him not absolutely without bread for his family should the Melmotte
affairs at any time take an awkward turn.&nbsp; Melmotte had never
required from him service that was actually fraudulent,&mdash;had at any
rate never required it by spoken words.&nbsp; Mr Croll had not been
over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to Mr
Melmotte.&nbsp; But there must be a limit to all things; and why
should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling
house,&mdash;when convinced that nothing he can do can prevent the
fall?&nbsp; Mr Croll would have been of course happy to witness
Miss Melmotte's signature; but as for that other kind of
witnessing,&mdash;this clearly to his thinking was not the time for such
good-nature on his part.

<p>"You know what's up now;&mdash;don't you?" said one of the junior
clerks to Mr Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane.

<p>"A good deal will be up soon," said the German.

<p>"Cohenlupe has gone!"

<p>"And to vere has Mr Cohenlupe gone?"

<p>"He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address.&nbsp; I fancy
he don't want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing
to him.&nbsp; Nobody seems to know what's become of him."

<p>"New York," suggested Mr Croll.

<p>"They seem to think not.&nbsp; They're too hospitable in New
York for Mr Cohenlupe just at present.&nbsp; He's travelling
private.&nbsp; He's on the continent somewhere,&mdash;half across France
by this time; but nobody knows what route he has taken.&nbsp;
That'll be a poke in the ribs for the old boy;&mdash;eh, Croll?"&nbsp;
Croll merely shook his head.&nbsp; "I wonder what has become of
Miles Grendall," continued the clerk.

<p>"Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house.&nbsp; I like
de rats to stay."

<p>"There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican
Railway scrip."

<p>"Our governor knew noding about dat," said Croll.

<p>"He has a hat full of them at any rate.&nbsp; If they could have
been kept up another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been
worth nearly a million of money, and the governor would have been
as good as the bank.&nbsp; Is it true they are going to have him
before the Lord Mayor about the Pickering title-deeds?"&nbsp; Croll
declared that he knew nothing about the matter, and settled himself
down to his work.

<p>In little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who
thus reached the City late in the afternoon.&nbsp; It was he knew
too late to raise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might
pave the way for getting it on the next day, which would be
Thursday.&nbsp; Of course the first news which he heard was of the
defection of Mr Cohenlupe.&nbsp; It was Croll who told him.&nbsp;
He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at first he said nothing.

<p>"It's a bad thing," said Mr Croll.

<p>"Yes;&mdash;it is bad.&nbsp; He had a vast amount of my property in
his hands.&nbsp; Where has he gone?"&nbsp; Croll shook his
head.&nbsp; "It never rains but it pours," said Melmotte.&nbsp;
"Well; I'll weather it all yet.&nbsp; I've been worse than I am
now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousand pounds at
my banker's,&mdash;loose cash,&mdash;before the month was out."

<p>"Yes, indeed," said Croll.

<p>"But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably
jealous.&nbsp; It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what
men will say that I've lost.&nbsp; Ever since I began to stand for
Westminster there has been a dead set against me in the City.&nbsp;
The whole of that affair of the dinner was planned,&mdash;planned, by
G&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;, that it might ruin me.&nbsp; It was
all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of a
building.&nbsp; It is hard for one man to stand against all that
when he has dealings so large as mine."

<p>"Very hard, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"But they'll find they're mistaken yet.&nbsp; There's too much
of the real stuff, Croll, for them to crush me.&nbsp; Property's a
kind of thing that comes out right at last.&nbsp; It's cut and come
again, you know, if the stuff is really there.&nbsp; But I mustn't
stop talking here.&nbsp; I suppose I shall find Brehgert in
Cuthbert's Court."

<p>"I should say so, Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert never leaves
much before six."

<p>Then Mr Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he
usually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in
its usually jaunty air.&nbsp; But Croll as he went heard him mutter
the name of Cohenlupe between his teeth.&nbsp; The part which he
had to act is one very difficult to any actor.&nbsp; The carrying
an external look of indifference when the heart is sinking
within,&mdash;or has sunk almost to the very ground,&mdash;is more than
difficult; it is an agonizing task.&nbsp; In all mental suffering
the sufferer longs for solitude,&mdash;for permission to cast himself
loose along the ground, so that every limb and every feature of his
person may faint in sympathy with his heart.&nbsp; A grandly urbane
deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond the
physical strength of most men;&mdash;but there have been men so
strong.&nbsp; Melmotte very nearly accomplished it.&nbsp; It was
only to the eyes of such a one as Herr Croll that the failure was
perceptible.

<p>Melmotte did find Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; At this time Mr Brehgert
had completed his correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he
had mentioned the probability of great losses from the anticipated
commercial failure in Mr Melmotte's affairs.&nbsp; He had now heard
that Mr Cohenlupe had gone upon his travels, and was therefore
nearly sure that his anticipation would be correct.&nbsp;
Nevertheless, he received his old friend with a smile.&nbsp; When
large sums of money are concerned there is seldom much of personal
indignation between man and man.&nbsp; The loss of fifty pounds or
of a few hundreds may create personal wrath;&mdash;but fifty thousand
require equanimity.&nbsp; "So Cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the
City to-day," said Brehgert.

<p>"He has gone," said Melmotte hoarsely.

<p>"I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for
large dealings."

<p>"Yes, you did," said Melmotte.

<p>"Well;&mdash;it can't be helped; can it?&nbsp; And what is it
now?"&nbsp; Then Melmotte explained to Mr Brehgert what it was that
he wanted then, taking the various documents out of the bag which
throughout the afternoon he had carried in his hand.&nbsp; Mr
Brehgert understood enough of his friend's affairs, and enough of
affairs in general, to understand readily all that was
required.&nbsp; He examined the documents, declaring, as he did so,
that he did not know how the thing could be arranged by
Friday.&nbsp; Melmotte replied that &pound;50,000 was not a very
large sum of money, that the security offered was worth twice as
much as that.&nbsp; "You will leave them with me this evening,"
said Brehgert.&nbsp; Melmotte paused for a moment, and said that he
would of course do so.&nbsp; He would have given much, very much,
to have been sufficiently master of himself to have assented
without hesitation;&mdash;but then the weight within was so very heavy!

<p>Having left the papers and the bag with Mr Brehgert, he walked
westwards to the House of Commons.&nbsp; He was accustomed to
remain in the City later than this, often not leaving it till
seven,&mdash;though during the last week or ten days he had occasionally
gone down to the House in the afternoon.&nbsp; It was now
Wednesday, and there was no evening sitting;&mdash;but his mind was too
full of other things to allow him to remember this.&nbsp; As he
walked along the Embankment, his thoughts were very heavy.&nbsp;
How would things go with him?&mdash;What would be the end of
it?&nbsp; Ruin;&mdash;yes, but there were worse things than ruin.&nbsp;
And a short time since he had been so fortunate;&mdash;had made himself
so safe!&nbsp; As he looked back at it, he could hardly say how it
had come to pass that he had been driven out of the track that he
had laid down for himself.&nbsp; He had known that ruin would come,
and had made himself so comfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in
spite of ruin.&nbsp; But insane ambition had driven him away from
his anchorage.&nbsp; He told himself over and over again that the
fault had been not in circumstances,&mdash;not in that which men call
Fortune,&mdash;but in his own incapacity to bear his position.&nbsp; He
saw it now.&nbsp; He felt it now.&nbsp; If he could only begin
again, how different would his conduct be!

<p>But of what avail were such regrets as these?&nbsp; He must take
things as they were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he
allowed himself to be carried away neither by pride nor
cowardice.&nbsp; And if the worst should come to the worst, then
let him face it like a man!&nbsp; There was a certain manliness
about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly in his own
self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at this
time.&nbsp; Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside
himself and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to
himself his own shortcomings.&nbsp; If it were all to be done again
he thought that he could avoid this bump against the rocks on one
side, and that terribly shattering blow on the other.&nbsp; There
was much that he was ashamed of,&mdash;many a little act which recurred
to him vividly in this solitary hour as a thing to be repented of
with inner sackcloth and ashes.&nbsp; But never once, not for a
moment, did it occur to him that he should repent of the fraud in
which his whole life had been passed.&nbsp; No idea ever crossed
his mind of what might have been the result had he lived the life
of an honest man.&nbsp; Though he was inquiring into himself as
closely as he could, he never even told himself that he had been
dishonest.&nbsp; Fraud and dishonesty had been the very principle
of his life, and had so become a part of his blood and bones that
even in this extremity of his misery he made no question within
himself as to his right judgment in regard to them.&nbsp; Not to
cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live more luxuriously than
others by cheating more brilliantly, was a condition of things to
which his mind had never turned itself.&nbsp; In that respect he
accused himself of no want of judgment.&nbsp; But why had he, so
unrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon of
unrighteousness?&nbsp; Why had he not conciliated Lord
Mayors?&nbsp; Why had he trod upon all the corns of all his
neighbours?&nbsp; Why had he been insolent at the India
Office?&nbsp; Why had he trusted any man as he had trusted
Cohenlupe?&nbsp; Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead of
going into Parliament?&nbsp; Why had he called down unnecessary
notice on his head by entertaining the Emperor of China?&nbsp; It
was too late now, and he must bear it; but these were the things
that had ruined him.

<p>He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of
Westminster Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not
sitting.&nbsp; "Oh, Wednesday!&nbsp; Of course it is," he said,
turning round and directing his steps towards Grosvenor
Square.&nbsp; Then he remembered that in the morning he had
declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not know
what better use to make of the present evening.&nbsp; His house
could hardly be very comfortable to him.&nbsp; Marie no doubt would
keep out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much
pleasure from his wife's company.&nbsp; But in his own house he
could at least be alone.&nbsp; Then, as he walked slowly across the
park, thinking so intently on matters as hardly to observe whether
he himself were observed or no, he asked himself whether it still
might not be best for him to keep the money which was settled on
his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that he could make no
payment, and to face the worst that Mr Squercum could do to
him,&mdash;for he knew already how busy Mr Squercum was in the
matter.&nbsp; Though they should put him on his trial for forgery,
what of that?&nbsp; He had heard of trials in which the accused
criminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were
in progress,&mdash;who had been f&ecirc;ted from the beginning to the end
though no one had doubted their guilt,&mdash;and who had come out
unscathed at the last.&nbsp; What evidence had they against
him?&nbsp; It might be that the Longestaffes and Bideawhiles and
Squercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge
would not produce a verdict.&nbsp; He, as member for Westminster,
as the man who had entertained the Emperor, as the owner of one of
the most gorgeous houses in London, as the great Melmotte, could
certainly command the best half of the bar.&nbsp; He already felt
what popular support might do for him.&nbsp; Surely there need be
no despondency while so good a hope remained to him!&nbsp; He did
tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter
of the old man who was dead.&nbsp; And he knew that it was possible
that other things might be adduced; but would it not be better to
face it all than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing,
as he did very clearly, that even by such surrender he could not
cleanse his character?

<p>But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr
Brehgert!&nbsp; Again he had acted in a hurry,&mdash;without giving
sufficient thought to the matter in hand.&nbsp; He was angry with
himself for that also.&nbsp; But how is a man to give sufficient
thought to his affairs when no step that he takes can be other than
ruinous?&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;he had certainly put into Brehgert's hands
means of proving him to have been absolutely guilty of
forgery.&nbsp; He did not think that Marie would disclaim the
signatures, even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she
should understand that her father had written her name; nor did he
think that his clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of
Croll's name could not injure Croll.&nbsp; But Brehgert, should he
discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him to
escape.&nbsp; And now he had put these forgeries without any guard
into Brehgert's hands.

<p>He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his
mind.&nbsp; He would see Brehgert before any action could have been
taken on the documents, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to
him.&nbsp; Then he would instruct his daughter to hold the money
fast, to sign no paper that should be put before her, and to draw
the income herself.&nbsp; Having done that, he would let his foes
do their worst.&nbsp; They might drag him to gaol.&nbsp; They
probably would do so.&nbsp; He had an idea that he could not be
admitted to bail if accused of forgery.&nbsp; But he would bear all
that.&nbsp; If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping
that an end might come.&nbsp; But how great was the chance that
they might fail to convict him!&nbsp; As to the dead man's letter,
and as to Dolly Longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any
sufficient evidence could be found.&nbsp; The evidence as to the
deeds by which Marie was to have released the property was indeed
conclusive; but he believed that he might still recover those
documents.&nbsp; For the present it must be his duty to do
nothing,&mdash; when he should have recovered and destroyed those
documents,&mdash;and to live before the eyes of men as though he feared
nothing.

<p>He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully
went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes
of those ministers of the law who would probably before long have
the privilege of searching them.&nbsp; At dinner, and while he was
thus employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,&mdash;feeling himself
greatly comforted by the process.&nbsp; If he could only hold up
his head and look men in the face, he thought that he might still
live through it all.&nbsp; How much had he done by his own
unassisted powers!&nbsp; He had once been imprisoned for fraud at
Hamburg, and had come out of gaol a pauper; friendless, with all
his wretched antecedents against him.&nbsp; Now he was a member of
the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of perhaps the
most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an
established character for high finance,&mdash;a commercial giant whose
name was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two
hemispheres.&nbsp; Even though he should be condemned to penal
servitude for life, he would not all die.&nbsp; He rang the bell
and desired that Madame Melmotte might be sent to him, and bade the
servant bring him brandy.

<p>In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room.&nbsp;
Every one connected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain
amount of awe,&mdash;every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at
times been himself almost gentle.&nbsp; The servants all feared
him, and his wife obeyed him implicitly when she could not keep
away from him.&nbsp; She came in now and stood opposite him, while
he spoke to her.&nbsp; She never sat in his presence in that
room.&nbsp; He asked her where she and Marie kept their
jewelry;&mdash;for during the last twelve months rich trinkets had been
supplied to both of them.&nbsp; Of course she answered by another
question.&nbsp; "Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?"

<p>"A good deal is going to happen.&nbsp; Are they here in this
house, or in Grosvenor Square?"

<p>"They are here."

<p>"Then have them all packed up,&mdash;as small as you can; never mind
about wool and cases and all that.&nbsp; Have them close to your
hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you.&nbsp;
Do you understand?"

<p>"Yes; I understand."

<p>"Why don't you speak, then?"

<p>"What is going to happen, Melmotte?"

<p>"How can I tell?&nbsp; You ought to know by this time that when
a man's work is such as mine, things will happen.&nbsp; You'll be
safe enough.&nbsp; Nothing can hurt you."

<p>"Can they hurt you, Melmotte?"

<p>"Hurt me!&nbsp; I don't know what you call hurting.&nbsp;
Whatever there is to be borne, I suppose it is I must bear
it.&nbsp; I have not had it very soft all my life hitherto, and I
don't think it's going to be very soft now."

<p>"Shall we have to move?"

<p>"Very likely.&nbsp; Move!&nbsp; What's the harm of moving?&nbsp;
You talk of moving as though that were the worst thing that could
happen.&nbsp; How would you like to be in some place where they
wouldn't let you move?"

<p>"Are they going to send you to prison?"

<p>"Hold your tongue."

<p>"Tell me, Melmotte;&mdash;are they going to?"&nbsp; Then the poor
woman did sit down, overcome by her feelings.

<p>"I didn't ask you to come here for a scene," said
Melmotte.&nbsp; "Do as I bid you about your own jewels, and
Marie's.&nbsp; The thing is to have them in small compass, and that
you should not have it to do at the last moment, when you will be
flurried and incapable.&nbsp; Now you needn't stay any longer, and
it's no good asking any questions because I shan't answer
them."&nbsp; So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and
immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her
ornaments.

<p>Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes
sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking.&nbsp; But he did
no work, and hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="82"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXII.&nbsp; Marie's Perseverance</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Very early the next morning, very early that is for London life,
Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr Croll had called and wanted
to see him.&nbsp; Then it immediately became a question with him
whether he wanted to see Croll.&nbsp; "Is it anything special?" he
asked.&nbsp; The man thought that it was something special, as
Croll had declared his purpose of waiting when told that Mr
Melmotte was not as yet dressed.&nbsp; This happened at about nine
o'clock in the morning.&nbsp; Melmotte longed to know every detail
of Croll's manner,&mdash;to know even the servant's opinion of the
clerk's manner,&mdash;but he did not dare to ask a question.&nbsp;
Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious.&nbsp; "Ask
him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the
study."&nbsp; But Mr Croll had breakfasted and declined any further
refreshment.

<p>Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he
would meet his clerk.&nbsp; His clerk was his clerk.&nbsp; It might
perhaps be well that he should first go into the City and send word
to Croll, bidding him wait for his return.&nbsp; Over and over
again, against his will, the question of flying would present
itself to him; but, though he discussed it within his own bosom in
every form, he knew that he could not fly.&nbsp; And if he stood
his ground,&mdash;as most assuredly he would do,&mdash;then must he not be
afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts in
his hand he might.&nbsp; Of course sooner or later some man must
come with a thunderbolt,&mdash;and why not Croll as well as
another?&nbsp; He stood against a press in his chamber, with a
razor in his hand, and steadied himself.&nbsp; How easily might he
put an end to it all!&nbsp; Then he rang his bell and desired that
Croll might be shown up into his room.

<p>The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be
very long.&nbsp; He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that
the lather was still upon his face.&nbsp; But he could not smother
his anxiety.&nbsp; He was fighting with it at every turn, but he
could not conquer it.&nbsp; When the knock came at his door, he
grasped at his own breast as though to support himself.&nbsp; With
a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and Croll himself
appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly.&nbsp; Melmotte
had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr
Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bag
in his hand and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag
contained the papers.&nbsp; The man therefore had in his own hands,
in his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had
been forged!&nbsp; There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance
that Croll should be ignorant of what had been done.&nbsp; "Well,
Croll," he said with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here
so early?"&nbsp; He was pale as death, and let him struggle as he
would, could not restrain himself from trembling.

<p>"Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night," said Croll.

<p>"Eh!"

<p>"And he thought I had better bring these back to you.&nbsp;
That's all."&nbsp; Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes
fixed on his master's face, but with nothing of a threat in his
attitude or manner.

<p>"Eh!" repeated Melmotte.&nbsp; Even though he might have saved
himself from all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment,
he could not assume it.&nbsp; But it all flashed upon him at a
moment.&nbsp; Brehgert had seen Croll after he, Melmotte, had left
the City, had then discovered the forgery, and had taken this way
of sending back all the forged documents.&nbsp; He had known
Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the most good-natured, but
he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this.&nbsp; It
seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

<p>"Mr Brehgert came to me," continued Croll, "because one
signature was wanting.&nbsp; It was very late, so I took them home
with me.&nbsp; I said I'd bring them to you in the morning."

<p>They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and
Croll; but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two
friends had resolved together that they would not expose him?&nbsp;
He had desired to get the documents back into his own hands, and
here they were!&nbsp; Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the
difficulty of speaking in a proper manner to his own servant who
had just detected him in forgery.&nbsp; He couldn't speak.&nbsp;
There were no words appropriate to such an occasion.&nbsp; "It vas
a strong order, Mr Melmotte," said Croll.&nbsp; Melmotte tried to
smile but only grinned.&nbsp; "I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr
Melmotte."

<p>"Not back at the office, Croll?"

<p>"I tink not;&mdash;no.&nbsp; De leetle money coming to me, you will
send it.&nbsp; Adieu."&nbsp; And so Mr Croll took his final leave
of his old master after an intercourse which had lasted twenty
years.&nbsp; We may imagine that Herr Croll found his spirits to be
oppressed and his capacity for business to be obliterated by his
patron's misfortunes rather than by his patron's guilt.&nbsp; But
he had not behaved unkindly.&nbsp; He had merely remarked that the
forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was a "strong
order."

<p>Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by
one.&nbsp; It had been necessary that Marie should sign her name
some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the
necessary forgeries.&nbsp; It had been of course necessary that
each name should be witnessed;&mdash;but here the forger had scamped his
work.&nbsp; Croll's name he had written five times; but one forged
signature he had left unattested!&nbsp; Again he had himself been
at fault.&nbsp; Again he had aided his own ruin by his own
carelessness.&nbsp; One seems inclined to think sometimes that any
fool might do an honest business.&nbsp; But fraud requires a man to
be alive and wide awake at every turn!

<p>Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own
hands, and now he had them.&nbsp; Did it matter much that Brehgert
and Croll both knew the crime which he had committed?&nbsp; Had
they meant to take legal steps against him they would not have
returned the forgeries to his own hands.&nbsp; Brehgert, he
thought, would never tell the tale;&mdash;unless there should arise some
most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling
it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll.&nbsp; Croll had
signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would
therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an
enemy to his late master.&nbsp; There could be no reason why Croll
should keep the secret.&nbsp; Even if he got no direct profit by
telling it, he would curry favour by making it known.&nbsp; Of
course Croll would tell it.

<p>But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him?&nbsp;
The girl was his own daughter!&nbsp; The money had been his own
money!&nbsp; The man had been his own servant!&nbsp; There had been
no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation.&nbsp; Melmotte, as
he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done,
thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the
facts could do him no harm.&nbsp; But the evidence must be
suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little
bag and all the papers down with him to the study.&nbsp; Then he
ate his breakfast,&mdash;and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his
gas lamp.

<p>When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in
which he would pass his day.&nbsp; He had now given up all idea of
raising the money for Longestaffe.&nbsp; He had even considered the
language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on
the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented
itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave
the matter in their hands.&nbsp; For he had resolved that he would
not evade the meeting.&nbsp; Cohenlupe had gone since he had made
his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe.&nbsp;
Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant
causes the downfall of another.&nbsp; Cohenlupe should bear the
burden.&nbsp; But as that must be so, he could do no good by going
into the City.&nbsp; His pecuniary downfall had now become too much
a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his
personal security could hardly be assisted by it.&nbsp; There would
be nothing for him to do.&nbsp; Cohenlupe had gone.&nbsp; Miles
Grendall had gone.&nbsp; Croll had gone.&nbsp; He could hardly go
to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr Brehgert!&nbsp; He would stay at
home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he
would face the world there.&nbsp; He would dine down at the House,
and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible
in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother
legislators,&mdash;and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a
speech to them.&nbsp; He was about to have a crushing fall,&mdash;but
the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

<p>About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the
study.&nbsp; It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to
Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course
of his career had received indulgence at his hands.&nbsp; He had
often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and
smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her
pocket-money almost without limit.&nbsp; Now she had not only
disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had
driven him to acts of forgery which had already been
detected.&nbsp; He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had
ever had cause for anger.&nbsp; But he had almost forgotten the
transaction.&nbsp; He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his
own feelings at the time of its occurrence.&nbsp; He was no longer
anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer
angry with her for her refusal.

<p>"Papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "I think
that perhaps I was wrong yesterday."

<p>"Of course you were wrong;&mdash;but it doesn't matter now."

<p>"If you wish it I'll sign those papers.&nbsp; I don't suppose
Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;&mdash;and I'm sure I don't care
whether he does or not."

<p>"What makes you think that, Marie?"

<p>"I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was
there.&nbsp; I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more."

<p>"Was he uncivil to you?"

<p>"Oh dear no.&nbsp; He's never uncivil.&nbsp; But I'm sure of
it.&nbsp; Never mind how.&nbsp; I never told him that I cared for
him and I never did care for him.&nbsp; Papa, is there something
going to happen?"

<p>"What do you mean?"

<p>"Some misfortune!&nbsp; Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry
that other man?"

<p>"He is a penniless adventurer."

<p>"But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then
there would have been enough for us all.&nbsp; Papa, he would marry
me still if you would let him."

<p>"Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?"

<p>"Never, papa."

<p>"Or heard from him?"

<p>"Not a line."

<p>"Then what makes you think he would marry you?"

<p>"He would if I got hold of him and told him.&nbsp; And he is a
baronet.&nbsp; And there would be plenty of money for us all.&nbsp;
And we could go and live in Germany."

<p>"We could do that just as well without your marrying."

<p>"But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody.&nbsp; I
don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody
had turned up their noses at me.&nbsp; I like him, and I don't like
anybody else."

<p>"He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you."

<p>"He got tipsy.&nbsp; I know all about that.&nbsp; I don't mean
to say that he's anything particularly grand.&nbsp; I don't know
that anybody is very grand.&nbsp; He's as good as anybody else."

<p>"It can't be done, Marie."

<p>"Why can't it be done?"

<p>"There are a dozen reasons.&nbsp; Why should my money be given
up to him?&nbsp; And it is too late.&nbsp; There are other things
to be thought of now than marriage."

<p>"You don't want me to sign the papers?"

<p>"No;&mdash;I haven't got the papers.&nbsp; But I want you to remember
that the money is mine and not yours.&nbsp; It may be that much may
depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly
everything.&nbsp; Do not let me find myself deceived by my
daughter."

<p>"I won't,&mdash;if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more."

<p>Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became
angry.&nbsp; "I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the
question.&nbsp; Why cannot you believe me?&nbsp; Has your mother
spoken to you about your jewels?&nbsp; Get them packed up, so that
you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this
suddenly.&nbsp; You are an idiot to think of that young man.&nbsp;
As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among
them all he is about the worst.&nbsp; Go away and do as I bid you."

<p>That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady
Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who
wanted to see Sir Felix.&nbsp; At this time the dominion of Sir
Felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed.&nbsp; His
latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all
messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his
mother.&nbsp; The plasters were not removed from his face, so that
he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we
are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they
have been daubed with mud.&nbsp; Lady Carbury asked sundry
questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she
had heard, had come to seek her lover.&nbsp; The page could give no
special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black
veil.&nbsp; Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be
shown into her own presence,&mdash;and Marie Melmotte was ushered into
the room.&nbsp; "I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury,"
Marie said.&nbsp; "I am Marie Melmotte."

<p>At first Lady Carbury had not recognized her visitor;&mdash;but she
did so before she replied.&nbsp; "Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember
you."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I am Mr Melmotte's daughter.&nbsp; How is your son?&nbsp;
I hope he is better.&nbsp; They told me he had been horribly used
by a dreadful man in the street."

<p>"Sit down, Miss Melmotte.&nbsp; He is getting better."&nbsp; Now
Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr Broune that
"it was all over" with Melmotte.&nbsp; Broune had declared his very
strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed
various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against
him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great
Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting.&nbsp; "Everybody
says that he'll be in gaol before a week is over."&nbsp; That was
the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes
only on the previous evening.

<p>"I want to see him," said Marie.&nbsp; Lady Carbury, hardly
knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while.&nbsp; "I
suppose he told you everything;&mdash;didn't he?&nbsp; You know that we
were to have been married?&nbsp; I loved him very much, and so I do
still.&nbsp; I am not ashamed of coming and telling you."

<p>"I thought it was all off," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"I never said so.&nbsp; Does he say so?&nbsp; Your daughter came
to me and was very good to me.&nbsp; I do so love her.&nbsp; She
said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong.&nbsp; It
shan't be all over if he will be true."

<p>Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise.&nbsp; It seemed to
her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father
was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with
a considerable amount of audacity.&nbsp; She gave Marie little
credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was
unwilling to answer her roughly.&nbsp; "I am afraid," she said,
"that it would not be suitable."

<p>"Why should it not be suitable?&nbsp; They can't take my money
away.&nbsp; There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to
live with us;&mdash;but it is mine.&nbsp; It is ever so much;&mdash;I don't
know how much, but a great deal.&nbsp; We should be quite rich
enough.&nbsp; I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because
we were engaged.&nbsp; I know he isn't rich, and I should have
thought it would be suitable."

<p>It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the
marriage after all might be suitable.&nbsp; But how was she to find
out whether it was true?&nbsp; "I understand that your papa is
opposed to it," she said.

<p>"Yes, he is;&mdash;but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me
give up the money.&nbsp; It's ever so many thousands a year, I
know.&nbsp; If I can dare to do it, why can't he?"

<p>Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found
it impossible to form any decision.&nbsp; It would be necessary
that she should see Mr Broune.&nbsp; What to do with her son, how
to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding
herself of him she might not aid in destroying him,&mdash;this was the
great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her
back.&nbsp; Now this girl was not only willing but persistently
anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,&mdash;as she
declared,&mdash;with ever so many thousands a year.&nbsp; If the
thousands were there,&mdash;or even an income of a single thousand a
year,&mdash;then what a blessing would such a marriage be!&nbsp; Sir
Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would
not be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes
because the Melmottes had fallen.&nbsp; To get any niche in the
world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would
now be to her a heaven-sent comfort.&nbsp; "My son is upstairs,"
she said.&nbsp; "I will go up and speak to him."

<p>"Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him
everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true
to me, I will be true to him."

<p>"I couldn't go down to her," said Sir Felix, "with my face all
in this way."

<p>"I don't think she would mind that."

<p>"I couldn't do it.&nbsp; Besides, I don't believe about her
money.&nbsp; I never did believe it.&nbsp; That was the real reason
why I didn't go to Liverpool."

<p>"I think I would see her if I were you, Felix.&nbsp; We could
find out to a certainty about her fortune.&nbsp; It is evident at
any rate that she is very fond of you."

<p>"What's the use of that, if he is ruined?"&nbsp; He would not go
down to see the girl,&mdash;because he could not endure to expose his
face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the
street.&nbsp; As regarded the money he half-believed and
half-disbelieved Marie's story.&nbsp; But the fruition of the
money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be
attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with
Marie would be immediate.&nbsp; How could he kiss his future bride,
with his nose bound up with a bandage?

<p>"What shall I say to her?" asked his mother.

<p>"She oughtn't to have come.&nbsp; I should tell her just
that.&nbsp; You might send the maid to her to tell her that you
couldn't see her again."

<p>But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that
fashion.&nbsp; She returned to the drawing-room, descending the
stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make.&nbsp;
"Miss Melmotte," she said, "my son feels that everything has been
so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by
a renewal of your acquaintance."

<p>"That is his message;&mdash;is it?"&nbsp; Lady Carbury remained
silent.&nbsp; "Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I
am ashamed that I should have loved him.&nbsp; I am ashamed;&mdash;not
of coming here, although you will think that I have run after
him.&nbsp; I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if
they have been engaged together.&nbsp; But I'm ashamed of thinking
so much of so mean a person.&nbsp; Goodbye, Lady Carbury."

<p>"Good-bye, Miss Melmotte.&nbsp; I don't think you should be
angry with me."

<p>"No;&mdash;no.&nbsp; I am not angry with you.&nbsp; You can forget me
now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him."

<p>Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going
round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the
way.&nbsp; What should she now do with herself?&nbsp; What sort of
life should she endeavour to prepare for herself?&nbsp; The life
that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly
wretched.&nbsp; The poverty and hardship which she remembered in
her early days had been more endurable.&nbsp; The servitude to
which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse
with the world to assert herself, had been preferable.&nbsp; In
these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes,
and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to
lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to
her.&nbsp; She had really loved;&mdash;but had found out that her golden
idol was made of the basest clay.&nbsp; She had then declared to
herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it;&mdash;but even
the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!

<p>She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to
her father.&nbsp; Catastrophes had happened before, and she had
been conscious of their coming.&nbsp; But now the blow would be a
very heavy blow.&nbsp; They would again be driven to pack up and
move and seek some other city,&mdash;probably in some very distant
part.&nbsp; But go where she might, she would now be her own
mistress.&nbsp; That was the one resolution she succeeded in
forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="83"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXIII.&nbsp; Melmotte Again at the House</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>On that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there
was to be a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs.&nbsp; As soon
as Cohenlupe had gone, no man doubted.&nbsp; The City men who had
not gone to the dinner prided themselves on their foresight, as did
also the politicians who had declined to meet the Emperor of China
at the table of the suspected Financier.&nbsp; They who had got up
the dinner and had been instrumental in taking the Emperor to the
house in Grosvenor Square, and they also who had brought him
forward at Westminster and had fought his battle for him, were
aware that they would have to defend themselves against heavy
attacks.&nbsp; No one now had a word to say in his favour, or a
doubt as to his guilt.&nbsp; The Grendalls had retired altogether
out of town, and were no longer even heard of.&nbsp; Lord Alfred
had not been seen since the day of the dinner.&nbsp; The Duchess of
Albury, too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual,
quelled, as the world said, by the general Melmotte failure.&nbsp;
But this departure had not as yet taken place at the time at which
we have now arrived.

<p>When the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four
o'clock, there were a great many members present, and a general
feeling prevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive
because of Melmotte and his failures.&nbsp; It had been confidently
asserted throughout the morning that he would be put upon his trial
for forgery in reference to the purchase of the Pickering property
from Mr Longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown
himself anywhere on this day.&nbsp; People had gone to look at the
house in Grosvenor Square,&mdash;not knowing that he was still living in
Mr Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with the
impression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already
plainly to be seen upon it.&nbsp; "I wonder where he is," said Mr
Lupton to Mr Beauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the
House.

<p>"They say he hasn't been in the City all day.&nbsp; I suppose
he's in Longestaffe's house.&nbsp; That poor fellow has got it
heavy all round.&nbsp; The man has got his place in the country and
his house in town.&nbsp; There's Nidderdale.&nbsp; I wonder what he
thinks about it all."

<p>"This is awful;&mdash;ain't it?" said Nidderdale.

<p>"It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are
concerned," replied Mr Lupton.

<p>"Well, yes.&nbsp; But I'll tell you what, Lupton.&nbsp; I don't
quite understand it all yet.&nbsp; Our lawyer said three days ago
that the money was certainly there."

<p>"And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago," said
Lupton,&mdash;"but he isn't here now.&nbsp; It seems to me that it has
just happened in time for you."&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale shook his
head and tried to look very grave.

<p>"There's Brown," said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to the
commercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr Melmotte on a
previous occasion had been anxious to correct.&nbsp; "He'll be able
to tell us where he is.&nbsp; It was rumoured, you know, an hour
ago, that he was off to the continent after Cohenlupe."&nbsp; But
Mr Brown shook his head.&nbsp; Mr Brown didn't know anything.&nbsp;
But Mr Brown was very strongly of opinion that the police would
know all that there was to be known about Mr Melmotte before this
time on the following day.&nbsp; Mr Brown had been very bitter
against Melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him in the
House.

<p>Even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary
question-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than
upon their own defence.&nbsp; "Do you know anything about it?"
asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for
the Home Department.

<p>"I understand that no order has been given for his arrest.&nbsp;
There is a general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I
doubt whether they've got their evidence together."

<p>"He's a ruined man, I suppose," said the Chancellor.&nbsp; "I
doubt whether he ever was a rich man.&nbsp; But I'll tell you
what;&mdash;he has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet.&nbsp;
He must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last
twelve months on his personal expenses.&nbsp; I wonder how the
Emperor will like it when he learns the truth."&nbsp; Another
minister sitting close to the Secretary of State was of opinion
that the Emperor of China would not care half so much about it as
our own First Lord of the Treasury.

<p>At this moment there came a silence over the House which was
almost audible.&nbsp; They who know the sensation which arises from
the continued hum of many suppressed voices will know also how
plain to the ear is the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the
sound.&nbsp; Everybody looked up, but everybody looked up in
perfect silence.&nbsp; An Under-Secretary of State had just got
upon his legs to answer a most indignant question as to an
alteration of the colour of the facings of a certain regiment, his
prepared answer to which, however, was so happy as to allow him to
anticipate quite a little triumph.&nbsp; It is not often that such
a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and he was intent
upon his performance.&nbsp; But even he was startled into momentary
oblivion of his well-arranged point.&nbsp; Augustus Melmotte, the
member for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.

<p>He had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms
of the House as to know what to do with his hat,&mdash;when to wear it,
and when to take it off,&mdash;and how to sit down.&nbsp; As he entered
by the door facing the Speaker, he wore his hat on the side of his
head, as was his custom.&nbsp; Much of the arrogance of his
appearance had come from this habit, which had been adopted
probably from a conviction that it added something to his powers of
self-assertion.&nbsp; At this moment he was more determined than
ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or in any feature
of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men
were anticipating.&nbsp; Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little
more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back
a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore
in his shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was
specially conspicuous.&nbsp; He had come down in his brougham, and
as he had walked up Westminster Hall and entered the House by the
private door of the members, and then made his way in across the
great lobby and between the doorkeepers,&mdash;no one had spoken a word
to him.&nbsp; He had of course seen many whom he had known.&nbsp;
He had indeed known nearly all whom he had seen;&mdash;but he had been
aware, from the beginning of this enterprise of the day, that men
would shun him, and that he must bear their cold looks and colder
silence without seeming to notice them.&nbsp; He had schooled
himself to the task, and he was now performing it.&nbsp; It was not
only that he would have to move among men without being noticed,
but that he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same
plight.&nbsp; But he was resolved, and he was now doing it.&nbsp;
He bowed to the Speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising his
hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual, on the
third opposition-bench, but with more than his usual fling.&nbsp;
He was a big man, who always endeavoured to make an effect by
deportment, and was therefore customarily conspicuous in his
movements.&nbsp; He was desirous now of being as he was always,
neither more nor less demonstrative;&mdash;but, as a matter of course,
he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that there
was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up the
House and took his seat.&nbsp; The Under-Secretary of State, who
was on his legs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit
about the facings was lost to Parliament for ever.

<p>That unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat
next to that on which Melmotte had placed himself.&nbsp; It had so
happened three or four times since Melmotte had been in the House,
as the young lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's
daughter, had resolved that he would not be ashamed of his
father-in-law.&nbsp; He understood that countenance of the sort
which he as a young aristocrat could give to the man of millions
who had risen no one knew whence, was part of the bargain in
reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingled honesty
and courage which together made him willing and able to carry out
his idea.&nbsp; He had given Melmotte little lessons as to ordinary
forms of the House, and had done what in him lay to earn the money
which was to be forthcoming.&nbsp; But it had become manifest both
to him and to his father during the last two days,&mdash;very painfully
manifest to his father,&mdash;that the thing must be abandoned.&nbsp;
And if so,&mdash;then why should he be any longer gracious to
Melmotte?&nbsp; And, moreover, though he had been ready to be
courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable man, he was not
anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was now assured,
had been certainly guilty of forgery.&nbsp; But to get up at once
and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his side,
did not suit the turn of his mind.&nbsp; He looked round to his
neighbour on the right with a half-comic look of misery, and then
prepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be.

<p>"Have you been up with Marie to-day?" said Melmotte.

<p>"No;&mdash;I've not," replied the lord.

<p>"Why don't you go?&nbsp; She's always asking about you
now.&nbsp; I hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and
then we shall be able to make you comfortable."

<p>Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the
world was united in accusing him of forgery?&nbsp; "I'll tell you
what it is," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "I think you had better see my
governor again, Mr Melmotte."

<p>"There's nothing wrong, I hope."

<p>"Well;&mdash;I don't know.&nbsp; You'd better see him.&nbsp; I'm
going now.&nbsp; I only just came down to enter an
appearance."&nbsp; He had to cross Melmotte on his way out, and as
he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand.&nbsp; "Good night, my
boy," said Melmotte quite aloud,&mdash;in a voice much louder than that
which members generally allow themselves for conversation.&nbsp;
Nidderdale was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a
man in the House who did not understand the whole thing.&nbsp; He
rushed down through the gangway and out through the doors with a
hurried step, and as he escaped into the lobby he met Lionel
Lupton, who, since his little conversation with Mr Beauclerk, had
heard further news.

<p>"You know what has happened, Nidderdale?"

<p>"About Melmotte, you mean?"

<p>"Yes, about Melmotte," continued Lupton.&nbsp; "He has been
arrested in his own house within the last half-hour on a charge of
forgery."

<p>"I wish he had," said Nidderdale, "with all my heart.&nbsp; If
you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life.&nbsp; He
has been talking to me as though everything were all right."

<p>"Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been
taken under a warrant from the Lord Mayor."

<p>"The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his
prisoner himself.&nbsp; At any rate he's there.&nbsp; I shouldn't
wonder if he wasn't on his legs before long."

<p>Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the
House adjourned till nine.&nbsp; He was one of the last to leave,
and then with a slow step,&mdash;with almost majestic steps,&mdash;he
descended to the dining-room and ordered his dinner.&nbsp; There
were many men there, and some little difficulty about a seat.&nbsp;
No one was very willing to make room for him.&nbsp; But at last he
secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate who was there
before him.&nbsp; It was impossible to expel him,&mdash;almost as
impossible to sit next him.&nbsp; Even the waiters were unwilling
to serve him;&mdash;but with patience and endurance he did at last get
his dinner.&nbsp; He was there in his right, as a member of the
House of Commons, and there was no ground on which such service as
he required could be refused to him.&nbsp; It was not long before
he had the table all to himself.&nbsp; But of this he took no
apparent notice.&nbsp; He spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his
bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment.&nbsp; Since his
friendly intercourse with Nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor
had he spoken to any man.&nbsp; They who watched him declared among
themselves that he was happy in his own audacity;&mdash;but in truth he
was probably at that moment the most utterly wretched man in
London.&nbsp; He would have better studied his personal comfort had
he gone to his bed, and spent his evening in groans and
wailings.&nbsp; But even he, with all the world now gone from him,
with nothing before him but the extremest misery which the
indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to spend the
last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any rate for
audacity.&nbsp; It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his toga
around him before his death!

<p>He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there,
taking from his pocket a huge case which he always carried,
proceeded to light a cigar about eight inches long.&nbsp; Mr Brown,
from the City, was in the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a
bow, offered Mr Brown one of the same.&nbsp; Mr Brown was a short,
fat, round little man, over sixty, who was always endeavouring to
give to a somewhat commonplace set of features an air of importance
by the contraction of his lips and the knitting of his brows.&nbsp;
It was as good as a play to see Mr Brown jumping back from any
contact with the wicked one, and putting on a double frown as he
looked at the impudent sinner.&nbsp; "You needn't think so much,
you know, of what I said the other night.&nbsp; I didn't mean any
offence."&nbsp; So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud,
hoarse laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he
were enjoying his triumph.

<p>He sat after that and smoked in silence.&nbsp; Once again he
burst out into a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own
thoughts;&mdash;as though he were declaring to himself with much inward
humour that all these men around him were fools for believing the
stories which they had heard; but he made no further attempt to
speak to any one.&nbsp; Soon after nine he went back again into the
House, and again took his old place.&nbsp; At this time he had
swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, as well as the
champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything.&nbsp; There
was some debate going on in reference to the game laws,&mdash;a subject
on which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his housemaids,&mdash;but,
as some speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs.&nbsp; Another
gentleman had also risen, and when the House called to that other
gentleman Melmotte gave way.&nbsp; The other gentleman had not much
to say, and in a few minutes Melmotte was again on his legs.&nbsp;
Who shall dare to describe the thoughts which would cross the
august mind of a Speaker of the House of Commons at such a
moment?&nbsp; Of Melmotte's villainy he had no official
knowledge.&nbsp; And even could he have had such knowledge it was
not for him to act upon it.&nbsp; The man was a member of the
House, and as much entitled to speak as another.&nbsp; But it
seemed on that occasion that the Speaker was anxious to save the
House from disgrace;&mdash;for twice and thrice he refused to have his
"eye caught" by the member for Westminster.&nbsp; As long as any
other member would rise he would not have his eye caught.&nbsp; But
Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be put down.&nbsp;
At last no one else would speak, and the House was about to
negative the motion without a division,&mdash;when Melmotte was again on
his legs, still persisting.&nbsp; The Speaker scowled at him and
leaned back in his chair.&nbsp; Melmotte standing erect, turning
his head round from one side of the House to another, as though
determined that all should see his audacity, propping himself with
his knees against the seat before him, remained for half a minute
perfectly silent.&nbsp; He was drunk,&mdash;but better able than most
drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face none of
those outward signs of intoxication by which drunkenness is
generally made apparent.&nbsp; But he had forgotten in his audacity
that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had
not a word at his command.&nbsp; He stumbled forward, recovered
himself, then looked once more round the House with a glance of
anger, and after that toppled headlong over the shoulders of Mr
Beauchamp Beauclerk, who was sitting in front of him.

<p>He might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he
remained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only
object, he could hardly have taken a surer course.&nbsp; The scene,
as it occurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the
performer should have been carried away into enforced
obscurity.&nbsp; There was much commotion in the House.&nbsp; Mr
Beauclerk, a man of natural good nature, though at the moment put
to considerable personal inconvenience, hastened, when he recovered
his own equilibrium, to assist the drunken man.&nbsp; But Melmotte
had by no means lost the power of helping himself.&nbsp; He quickly
recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his hat on, and
endeavoured to look as though nothing special had occurred.&nbsp;
The House resumed its business, taking no further notice of
Melmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment
to be adopted with drunken members.&nbsp; But the member for
Westminster caused no further inconvenience.&nbsp; He remained in
his seat for perhaps ten minutes, and then, not with a very steady
step, but still with capacity sufficient for his own guidance, he
made his way down to the doors.&nbsp; His exit was watched in
silence, and the moment was an anxious one for the Speaker, the
clerks, and all who were near him.&nbsp; Had he fallen some
one,&mdash;or rather some two or three,&mdash;must have picked him up and
carried him out.&nbsp; But he did not fall either there or in the
lobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard.&nbsp; Many were looking
at him, but none touched him.&nbsp; When he had got through the
gates, leaning against the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and
the servant who was waiting for him soon took him home to Bruton
Street.&nbsp; That was the last which the British Parliament saw of
its new member for Westminster.

<p>Melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own
sitting-room without difficulty, and called for more brandy and
water.&nbsp; Between eleven and twelve he was left there by his
servant with a bottle of brandy, three or four bottles of
soda-water, and his cigar-case.&nbsp; Neither of the ladies of the
family came to him, nor did he speak of them.&nbsp; Nor was he so
drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in the mind of the
servant.&nbsp; He was habitually left there at night, and the
servant as usual went to his bed.&nbsp; But at nine o'clock on the
following morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the
floor.&nbsp; Drunk as he had been,&mdash;more drunk as he probably
became during the night,&mdash;still he was able to deliver himself from
the indignities and penalties to which the law might have subjected
him by a dose of prussic acid.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="84"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXIV.&nbsp; Paul Montague's Vindication</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta
Carbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided
that duty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul
Montague.&nbsp; I think that she was irrational; but to her it
seemed that the offence against herself,&mdash;the offence against her
own dignity as a woman,&mdash;was too great to be forgiven.&nbsp; There
can be no doubt that it would all have been forgiven with the
greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her
ears from any other source.&nbsp; Had he said to her,&mdash;when her
heart was softest towards him,&mdash;I once loved another woman, and
that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me,
and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her
was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is
after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that
this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in
which I saw you;&mdash;had he told it to her thus, there would not have
been an opening for anger.&nbsp; And he doubtless would have so
told it, had not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly.&nbsp; He
was then forced to exculpate himself, to confess rather than to
tell his own story,&mdash;and to admit facts which wore the air of
having been concealed, and which had already been conceived to be
altogether damning if true.&nbsp; It was that journey to
Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,&mdash;a journey
as to which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger
Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it
to herself.&nbsp; Paul had been staying at the seaside with this
woman in amicable intimacy,&mdash;this horrid woman,&mdash;in intimacy worse
than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington!&nbsp;
Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going
there since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what
that meant.&nbsp; And during this very hour he had been,&mdash;well,
perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and
talking to her, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not
but make her understand that he intended to make love to her.&nbsp;
Of course they had really understood it, since they had met at
Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she
could not allow herself to dance with him more than,&mdash;say
half-a-dozen times.&nbsp; Of course she had not intended him then
to know that she would receive his love with favour, but equally of
course she had known that he must so feel it.&nbsp; She had not
only told herself, but had told her mother, that her heart was
given away to this man; and yet the man during this very time was
spending his hours with a&mdash;woman, with a strange American woman, to
whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged.&nbsp; How could
she not quarrel with him?&nbsp; How could she refrain from telling
him that everything must be over between them?&nbsp; Everybody was
against him,&mdash;her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt
that she had not a word to say in his defence.&nbsp; A horrid
woman!&nbsp; A wretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman!&nbsp;
It was terrible to her that a friend of hers should ever have
attached himself to such a creature;&mdash;but that he should have come
to her with a second tale of love long, long before he had cleared
himself from the first;&mdash;perhaps with no intention of clearing
himself from the first!&nbsp; Of course she could not forgive
him!&nbsp; No;&mdash;she would never forgive him.&nbsp; She would break
her heart for him.&nbsp; That was a matter of course; but she would
never forgive him.&nbsp; She knew well what it was that her mother
wanted.&nbsp; Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel
with Montague she would force her also into a marriage with Roger
Carbury.&nbsp; But her mother would find out that in that she was
mistaken.&nbsp; She would never marry her cousin, though she would
be always ready to acknowledge his worth.&nbsp; She was sure now
that she would never marry any man.&nbsp; As she made this resolve
she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it would be a trouble
to her mother;&mdash;for though she was altogether in accord with Lady
Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she was not the less
angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those
iniquities.

<p>Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken
tenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which
Paul had given her!&nbsp; It had as yet been an only present, and
in thanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken
words of love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that
that might ever be to her,&mdash;to her dying day,&mdash;the one precious
thing that had been given to her by her lover while she was yet a
girl.&nbsp; Now it must be sent back;&mdash;and, no doubt, it would go
to that abominable woman!&nbsp; But her fingers lingered over it as
she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told
herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her solitude,
by such a demonstration of affection.&nbsp; She had given her
answer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personal
correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a
request that it might be returned.

<p>"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him.&nbsp; Is there
nothing else?"

<p>"No, mamma;&mdash;nothing else.&nbsp; I have no letters, and no other
present.&nbsp; You always knew everything that took place.&nbsp; If
you will just send that back to him,&mdash;without a word.&nbsp; You won't
say anything, will you, mamma?"

<p>"There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him
understand you."

<p>"I think he understood me, mamma.&nbsp; You need not doubt about
that."

<p>"He has behaved very, very badly,&mdash;from the beginning," said
Lady Carbury.

<p>But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved
very badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be
told of his misbehaviour.&nbsp; No doubt she thought that the young
man had behaved very well in falling in love with her directly he
saw her;&mdash;only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs Hurtle to
Lowestoft afterwards!&nbsp; "It's no good talking about that,
mamma.&nbsp; I hope you will never talk of him any more."

<p>"He is quite unworthy," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"I can't bear to&mdash;have him&mdash;abused," said Hetta sobbing.

<p>"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time
unhappy.&nbsp; Such little accidents do make people unhappy&mdash;for
the time.&nbsp; But it will be much for the best that you should
endeavour not to be so sensitive about it.&nbsp; The world is too
rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full
play.&nbsp; You have to look out for the future, and you can best
do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once."

<p>"Oh, mamma, don't.&nbsp; How is a person to resolve?&nbsp; Oh,
mamma, don't say any more."

<p>"But, my dear, there is more that I must say.&nbsp; Your future
life is before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of
it.&nbsp; Of course you must be married."

<p>"There is no of course at all."

<p>"Of course you must be married," continued Lady Carbury, "and of
course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be
best done.&nbsp; My income is becoming less and less every
day.&nbsp; I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to
Mr Broune."

<p>"Money to Mr Broune!"

<p>"Yes,&mdash;to Mr Broune.&nbsp; I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr
Broune told me ought to be paid.&nbsp; And I owe money to
tradesmen.&nbsp; I fear that I shall not be able to keep on this
house.&nbsp; And they tell me,&mdash;your cousin and Mr Broune,&mdash;that
it is my duty to take Felix out of London probably abroad."

<p>"Of course I shall go with you."

<p>"It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be
necessary.&nbsp; Why should you?&nbsp; What pleasure could you have
in it?&nbsp; Think what my life must be with Felix in some French
or German town!"

<p>"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you?&nbsp; Why do
you speak of me always as though I were a burden?"

<p>"Everybody is a burden to other people.&nbsp; It is the way of
life.&nbsp; But you,&mdash;if you will only yield in ever so
little,&mdash;you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be
accepted simply as a blessing.&nbsp; You have the opportunity of
securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not
only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose
friendship we cannot fail to want."

<p>"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?"

<p>"Why should I not mean it?&nbsp; What is the use of indulging in
high-flown nonsense?&nbsp; Make up your mind to be the wife of your
cousin Roger."

<p>"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony.&nbsp;
"Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I
love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing
my heart in pieces?&nbsp; I know that I must, because he has
behaved so very badly,&mdash;and because of that wicked woman!&nbsp; And
so I have.&nbsp; But I did not think that in the very next hour you
would bid me give myself to somebody else!&nbsp; I will never marry
Roger Carbury.&nbsp; You may be quite&mdash;quite sure that I shall
never marry any one.&nbsp; If you won't take me with you when you
go away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my
bread.&nbsp; I suppose I could go out as a nurse."&nbsp; Then,
without waiting for a reply, she left the room and betook herself
to her own apartment.

<p>Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter.&nbsp; She
could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking
the opportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of
the other lover.&nbsp; She was simply anxious to get a husband for
her daughter,&mdash;as she had been anxious to get a wife for her
son,&mdash;in order that her child might live comfortably.&nbsp; But she
felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter
took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether
unable to accommodate herself to the hard truths of the
world.&nbsp; Deep as was the sorrow which her son brought upon her,
and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy for him
than for the girl.&nbsp; If there was anything that she could not
forgive in life it was romance.&nbsp; And yet she, at any rate,
believed that she delighted in romantic poetry!&nbsp; At the
present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish
in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she
commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be
her coming destiny.

<p>In these days she thought a good deal of Mr Broune's offer, and
of her own refusal.&nbsp; It was odd that since that refusal she
had seen more of him, and had certainly known much more of him than
she had ever seen or known before. Previous to that little episode
their intimacy had been very fictitious, as are many
intimacies.&nbsp; They had played at being friends, knowing but
very little of each other.&nbsp; But now, during the last five or
six weeks,&mdash;since she had refused his offer,&mdash;they had really
learned to know each other.&nbsp; In the exquisite misery of her
troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and
he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true
counsel.&nbsp; His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to
him.&nbsp; There was no longer any egregious flattery between
them,&mdash;and he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to
her.&nbsp; Once he had told her that she would be a fool if she did
not do so and so.&nbsp; The consequence was that she almost
regretted that she had allowed him to escape.&nbsp; But she
certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for she told
him all her troubles.&nbsp; It was on that afternoon, after her
disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to
her.&nbsp; And, on the same evening, closeted with Mr Broune in her
back room, she told him of both occurrences.&nbsp; "If the girl has
got the money&mdash;," she began, regretting her son's obstinacy.

<p>"I don't believe a bit of it," said Broune.&nbsp; "From all that
I can hear, I don't think that there is any money.&nbsp; And if
there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip
through his fingers in that way.&nbsp; I would not have anything to
do with it."

<p>"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?"

<p>"A rumour reached me just now that he had been already
arrested."&nbsp; It was now between nine and ten in the
evening.&nbsp; "But as I came away from my room, I heard that he
was down at the House.&nbsp; That he will have to stand a trial for
forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I imagine that it
will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the
property."

<p>"What a wonderful career it has been!"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;the strangest thing that has come up in our days.&nbsp; I
am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been
brought about by his reckless personal expenditure."

<p>"Why did he spend such a lot of money?"

<p>"Because he thought he could conquer the world by it, and obtain
universal credit.&nbsp; He very nearly succeeded too.&nbsp; Only he
had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his
competitors."

<p>"You think he has committed forgery?"

<p>"Certainly, I think so.&nbsp; Of course we know nothing as yet."

<p>"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married
her."

<p>"Certainly better.&nbsp; No redemption was to have been had on
that side, and I don't think you should regret the loss of such
money as his."&nbsp; Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably
to imply that even Melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to
one so dreadfully in want of assistance as her son.&nbsp; "At any
rate do not think of it any more."&nbsp; Then she told him her
grief about Hetta.&nbsp; "Ah, there," said he, "I feel myself less
able to express an authoritative opinion."

<p>"He doesn't owe a shilling," said Lady Carbury, "and he is
really a fine gentleman."

<p>"But if she doesn't like him?"

<p>"Oh, but she does.&nbsp; She thinks him to be the finest person
in the world.&nbsp; She would obey him a great deal sooner than she
would me.&nbsp; But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about
love."

<p>"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed
with that nonsense."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;and ruin themselves with it, as she will do.&nbsp; Love
is like any other luxury.&nbsp; You have no right to it unless you
can afford it.&nbsp; And those who will have it when they can't
afford it, will come to the ground like this Mr Melmotte.&nbsp; How
odd it seems!&nbsp; It isn't a fortnight since we all thought him
the greatest man in London."&nbsp; Mr Broune only smiled, not
thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never held that
opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.

<p>On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still
lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr Longestaffe's room,
a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her
that Mr Montague had delivered it with his own hands.&nbsp; She
took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an
assumed gesture of indifference beneath her pillow.&nbsp; But as
soon as the girl had left the room she at once seized her
treasure.&nbsp; It never occurred to her as yet to think whether
she would or would not receive a letter from her dismissed
lover.&nbsp; She had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and
had taken it for granted that he would do so,&mdash;probably
willingly.&nbsp; No doubt he would be delighted to return to the
American woman.&nbsp; But now that she had the letter, she allowed
no doubt to come between her and the reading of it.&nbsp; As soon
as she was alone she opened it, and she ran through its contents
without allowing herself a moment for thinking, as she went on,
whether the excuses made by her lover were or were not such as she
ought to accept.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAREST HETTA,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I think you have been most unjust to
me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your
injustice.&nbsp; I have never deceived you in anything, not by a
word, or for a moment.&nbsp; Unless you mean to throw me over
because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of
anger you have.&nbsp; I could not tell you about Mrs Hurtle till
you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had no
opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had
reached your ears.&nbsp; I hardly know what I said the other day, I
was so miserable at your accusation.&nbsp; But I suppose I said
then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that
circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before I had
ever seen you, and that I have certainly never wavered in my
determination since I saw you.&nbsp; I can with safety refer to
Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so determined, and
made up my mind very much at his instance.&nbsp; This was before I
had ever even met you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If I understand it all right you are
angry because I have associated with Mrs Hurtle since I so
determined.&nbsp; I am not going back to my first acquaintance with
her now.&nbsp; You may blame me for that if you please,&mdash;though it
cannot have been a fault against you.&nbsp; But, after what had
occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to
see me?&nbsp; I think that would have been cowardly.&nbsp; Of
course I went to her.&nbsp; And when she was all alone here,
without a single other friend and telling me that she was unwell,
and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to
refuse?&nbsp; I think that that would have been unkind.&nbsp; It
was a dreadful trouble to me.&nbsp; But of course I did it.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She asked me to renew my
engagement.&nbsp; I am bound to tell you that, but I know in
telling you that it will go no farther.&nbsp; I declined, telling
her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my
wife.&nbsp; Of course there has been anger and sorrow,&mdash;anger on
her part and sorrow on mine.&nbsp; But there has been no
doubt.&nbsp; And at last she yielded.&nbsp; As far as she was
concerned my trouble was over except in so far that her unhappiness
has been a great trouble to me,&mdash;when, on a sudden, I found that
the story had reached you in such a form as to make you determined
to quarrel with me!<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of course you do not know it all, for
I cannot tell you all without telling her history.&nbsp; But you
know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say
that you have no cause whatever for anger.&nbsp; I am writing at
night.&nbsp; This evening your brooch was brought to me with three
or four cutting words from your mother.&nbsp; But I cannot
understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate
yourself from me,&mdash;or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease
to love me now because of Mrs Hurtle.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am so absolutely confused by the
blow that I hardly know what I am writing, and take first one
outrageous idea into my head and then another.&nbsp; My love for
you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to
look forward to living without you, now that you have once owned
that you have loved me.&nbsp; I cannot think it possible that love,
such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all
at a moment.&nbsp; Mine can't.&nbsp; I don't think it is natural
that we should be parted.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If you want corroboration of my story
go yourself to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Anything is better than that we
both should be broken-hearted.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours most affectionately,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PAUL MONTAGUE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>

<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="85"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXV.&nbsp; Breakfast in Berkeley Square</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the
performance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say,
disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all
its circumstances.&nbsp; That had been at the commencement of the
evening, and Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved
with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young
lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs.&nbsp;
Everybody now knew it as a positive fact that the charges made
against the man were to become matter of investigation before the
chief magistrate for the City, everybody knew that he had committed
forgery upon forgery, everybody knew that he could not pay for the
property which he had pretended to buy, and that actually he was a
ruined man;&mdash;and yet he had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and
called the young lord "his dear boy" before the whole House.

<p>And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's
advocate.&nbsp; If he had not himself spoken openly of his coming
marriage with the girl, he had allowed other men to speak to him
about it.&nbsp; He had quarrelled with one man for saying that
Melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentially told his most intimate
friends that in spite of a little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at
bottom was a very good fellow.&nbsp; How was he now to back out of
his intimacy with the Melmottes generally?&nbsp; He was engaged to
marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse
her.&nbsp; He acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his
hands.&nbsp; Though at this moment he hated the father most
bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had
been pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly
feeling for the girl.&nbsp; Of course he could not marry her
now.&nbsp; That was manifestly out of the question.&nbsp; She
herself, as well as all others, had known that she was to be
married for her money, and now that bubble had been burst.&nbsp;
But he felt that he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the
whole been loyal to him, to have some personal explanation with
herself.&nbsp; He arranged in his own mind the sort of speech that
he would make to her.&nbsp; "Of course you know it can't be.&nbsp;
It was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and
now it turns out that you haven't got any.&nbsp; And I haven't got
any, and we should have nothing to live upon.&nbsp; It's out of the
question.&nbsp; But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you
very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well
together."&nbsp; That was the kind of speech that he suggested to
himself, but he did not know how to find for himself the
opportunity of making it.&nbsp; He thought that he must put it all
into a letter.&nbsp; But then that would be tantamount to a written
confession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared
that Melmotte,&mdash;or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great man
himself were absent, in prison,&mdash;might make an ungenerous use of
such an admission.

<p>Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there
he saw Dolly Longestaffe and others.&nbsp; Everybody was talking
about Melmotte, the prevailing belief being that he was at this
moment in custody.&nbsp; Dolly was full of his own griefs; but
consoled amidst them by a sense of his own importance.&nbsp; "I
wonder whether it's true," he was saying to Lord Grasslough.&nbsp;
"He has an appointment to meet me and my governor at twelve o'clock
to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us.&nbsp; He swore yesterday
that he would have the money to-morrow.&nbsp; But he can't keep his
appointment, you know, if he's in prison."

<p>"You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that," said
Grasslough.

<p>"I don't suppose I shall.&nbsp; By George, what an ass my
governor has been.&nbsp; He had no more right than you have to give
up the property.&nbsp; Here's Nidderdale.&nbsp; He could tell us
where he is; but I'm afraid to speak to him since he cut up so
rough the other night."

<p>In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord
Grasslough asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything
about Melmotte, the latter answered out loud, "Yes I left him in
the House half an hour ago."

<p>"People are saying that he has been arrested."

<p>"I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when
I left the House."&nbsp; Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly
Longestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him.&nbsp; "I suppose you were
about right the other night and I was about wrong; but you could
understand what it was that I meant.&nbsp; I'm afraid this is a bad
look out for both of us."

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I understand.&nbsp; It's deuced bad for me," said
Dolly.&nbsp; "I think you're very well out of it.&nbsp; But I'm
glad there's not to be a quarrel.&nbsp; Suppose we have a rubber of
whist."

<p>Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte
had tried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very
drunk, and that he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk
in his fall.&nbsp; "By George, I should like to have seen that!"
said Dolly.

<p>"I am very glad I was not there," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; It was
three o'clock before they left the card table, at which time
Melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in Mr Longestaffe's house.

<p>On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at
breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley
Square.&nbsp; From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was
not above a few hundred yards distant.&nbsp; At this time the young
lord was living with his father, and the two had now met by
appointment in order that something might be settled between them
as to the proposed marriage.&nbsp; The Marquis was not a very
pleasant companion when the affairs in which he was interested did
not go exactly as he would have them.&nbsp; He could be very cross
and say most disagreeable words,&mdash;so that the ladies of the family,
and others connected with him, for the most part, found it
impossible to live with him.&nbsp; But his eldest son had endured
him;&mdash;partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated
with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own
extreme good humour.&nbsp; What did a few hard words matter?&nbsp;
If his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all
that meant.&nbsp; As long as his father would make fair allowance
for his own peccadilloes,&mdash;he also would make allowances for his
father's roughness.&nbsp; All this was based on his grand theory of
live and let live.&nbsp; He expected his father to be a little
cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himself that there
was cause for it.

<p>He was a little late himself, and he found his father already
buttering his toast.&nbsp; "I don't believe you'd get out of bed a
moment sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property
by it."

<p>"You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I
don't earn the money."&nbsp; Then he sat down and poured himself
out a cup of tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.

<p>"I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord.

<p>"Not particular."&nbsp; The old man turned round and gnashed his
teeth at him.&nbsp; "The fact is, sir, I don't drink.&nbsp;
Everybody knows that."

<p>"I know when you're in the country you can't live without
champagne.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;what have you got to say about all this?"

<p>"What have you got to say?"

<p>"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."

<p>"I've been guided by you in everything.&nbsp; Come, now; you
ought to own that.&nbsp; I suppose the whole thing is over?"

<p>"I don't see why it should be over.&nbsp; I'm told she has got
her own money."&nbsp; Then Nidderdale described to his father
Melmotte's behaviour in the House on the preceding evening.&nbsp;
"What the devil does that matter?" said the old man.&nbsp; "You're
not going to marry the man himself."

<p>"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now."

<p>"And what does that matter?&nbsp; She's not in gaol.&nbsp; And
if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to
prison.&nbsp; Beggars mustn't be choosers.&nbsp; How do you mean to
live if you don't marry this girl?"

<p>"I shall scrape on, I suppose.&nbsp; I must look for somebody
else."&nbsp; The Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that
he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for
ingenuity in making such a search.&nbsp; "At any rate, sir, I can't
marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for
forgery."

<p>"I can't see what that has to do with you."

<p>"I couldn't do it, sir.&nbsp; I'd do anything else to oblige
you, but I couldn't do that.&nbsp; And, moreover, I don't believe
in the money."

<p>"Then you may just go to the devil," said the old Marquis
turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took
up the newspaper.&nbsp; Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with
perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his
cigar.&nbsp; "They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those
Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."

<p>"A Jewess," suggested Nidderdale.

<p>"What difference does that make?"

<p>"Oh no;&mdash;not in the least if the money's really there.&nbsp;
Have you heard any sum named, sir?"

<p>The old man only grunted.&nbsp; "There are two sisters and two
brothers.&nbsp; I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred
thousand each."

<p>"They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has
about twenty thousand a year."

<p>"It's only for her life, sir."

<p>"She could insure her life.&nbsp;
D&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;me, sir, we must do something.&nbsp;
If you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you
mean to live?"

<p>"I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest
would be a good speculation.&nbsp; Of course I'll think of it if
you press it."&nbsp; The old man growled again.&nbsp; "You
see, sir, I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I
haven't thought of inquiring about any one else.&nbsp; There always
is some one up with a lot of money.&nbsp; It's a pity there
shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of
money, and what is expected in return.&nbsp; It'd save a deal of
trouble."

<p>"If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go
away," said the old Marquis.

<p>At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord
Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the
hall.&nbsp; He was not always anxious to see those who called on
him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man
was.&nbsp; "I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr
Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said the footman, who was no doubt
fully acquainted with all the circumstances of Lord Nidderdale's
engagement.&nbsp; The son, who was still smoking, looked at his
father as though in doubt.&nbsp; "You'd better go and see," said
the Marquis.&nbsp; But Nidderdale before he went asked a question
as to what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him.&nbsp; "Go
and see Melmotte.&nbsp; Why should you be afraid to see him?&nbsp;
Tell him you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money
down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid
over."

<p>"He knows that already," said Nidderdale as he left the room.

<p>In the hall he found a man whom he recognized as Melmotte's
butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his
hand.&nbsp; But the lord could tell by the man's face and manner
that he himself had some story to tell.&nbsp; "Is there anything
the matter?"

<p>"Yes, my lord,&mdash;yes.&nbsp; Oh, dear,&mdash;oh, dear!&nbsp; I think
you'll be sorry to hear it.&nbsp; There was none who came there he
seemed to take to so much as your lordship."

<p>"They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale.&nbsp; But
the man shook his head.&nbsp; "What is it then?&nbsp; He can't be
dead."&nbsp; Then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up
to his face, burst into tears.&nbsp; "Mr Melmotte dead!&nbsp; He
was in the House of Commons last night.&nbsp; I saw him
myself.&nbsp; How did he die?"&nbsp; But the fat, ponderous man was
so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as
yet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply
handed the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp;
It was from Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the
time at which news had been brought to her of what had
occurred.&nbsp; The note was as follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR LORD NIDDERDALE,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The man will tell you what has
happened.&nbsp; I feel as though I was mad.&nbsp; I do not know who
to send to.&nbsp; Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;MARIE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man
as to the manner of his master's death.&nbsp; And now the Marquis,
gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay
that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the
hall.&nbsp; "Mr Melmotte is&mdash;dead," said his son.&nbsp; The old man
dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall.&nbsp; "This man
says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to
go there.&nbsp; How was it that he&mdash;died?"

<p>"It was&mdash;poison," said the butler solemnly.&nbsp; "There has been
a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that.&nbsp; He took
it all by himself last night.&nbsp; He came home, perhaps a little
fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;&mdash;and sat himself
down all to himself.&nbsp; Then in the morning, when the young
woman went,&mdash;in there he was,&mdash;poisoned!&nbsp; I see him lay on the
ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of
prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as
when the doctor came and told us."

<p>Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a
consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the
request which Marie had made in her first misery.&nbsp; The Marquis
thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street.&nbsp;
"What's the use?&nbsp; What good can you do?&nbsp; She'll only be
falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid,&mdash;at
any rate, till you know how things are."

<p>But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit
to this advice.&nbsp; He had been engaged to marry the girl, and
she in her abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew
best.&nbsp; At any rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual
life deserted him, and he felt willing to devote himself to the
girl not for what he could get,&mdash;but because she had so nearly been
so near to him.&nbsp; "I couldn't refuse her," he said over and
over again.&nbsp; "I couldn't bring myself to do it.&nbsp; Oh,
no;&mdash;I shall certainly go."

<p>"You'll get into a mess if you do."

<p>"Then I must get into a mess.&nbsp; I shall certainly go.&nbsp;
I will go at once.&nbsp; It is very disagreeable, but I cannot
possibly refuse.&nbsp; It would be abominable."&nbsp; Then going
back to the hall, he sent a message by the butler to Marie, saying
that he would be with her in less than half an hour.

<p>"Don't you go and make a fool of yourself," his father said to
him when he was alone.&nbsp; "This is just one of those times when
a man may ruin himself by being softhearted."&nbsp; Nidderdale
simply shook his head as he took his hat and gloves to go across to
Bruton Street.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="86"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXVI.&nbsp; The Meeting in Bruton Street</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When the news of her husband's death was in some very rough way
conveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time
altogether.&nbsp; Marie first heard that she no longer had a living
parent as she stood by the poor woman's bedside, and she was
enabled, as much perhaps by the necessity incumbent upon her of
attending to the wretched woman as by her own superior strength of
character, to save herself from that prostration and collapse of
power which a great and sudden blow is apt to produce.&nbsp; She
stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidings of the
tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside.&nbsp;
But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame Melmotte
soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was
not only active but efficacious.&nbsp; No;&mdash;she would not go down
to the room; she could do no good by going thither.&nbsp; But they
must send for a doctor.&nbsp; They should send for a doctor
immediately.&nbsp; She was then told that a doctor and an inspector
of police were already in the rooms below.&nbsp; The necessity of
throwing whatever responsibility there might be on to other
shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and they had
sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled with
persons fit to give directions in such an emergency.&nbsp; The
officers from the police station were already there when the woman
who now filled Didon's place in the house communicated to Madame
Melmotte the fact that she was a widow.

<p>It was afterwards said by some of those who had seen her at the
time, that Marie Melmotte had shown a hard heart on the
occasion.&nbsp; But the condemnation was wrong.&nbsp; Her feeling
for her father was certainly not that which we are accustomed to
see among our daughters and sisters.&nbsp; He had never been to her
the petted divinity of the household, whose slightest wish had been
law, whose little comforts had become matters of serious care,
whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were glorious
sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed would
be missed with mourning.&nbsp; How should it have been so with
her?&nbsp; In all the intercourses of her family, since the first
rough usage which she remembered, there had never been anything
sweet or gracious.&nbsp; Though she had recognized a certain duty,
as due from herself to her father, she had found herself bound to
measure it, so that more should not be exacted from her than duty
required.&nbsp; She had long known that her father would fain make
her a slave for his own purposes, and that if she put no limits to
her own obedience he certainly would put none.&nbsp; She had drawn
no comparison between him and other fathers, or between herself and
other daughters, because she had never become conversant with the
ways of other families.&nbsp; After a fashion she had loved him,
because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had
never respected him, and had spent the best energies of her
character on a resolve that she would never fear him.&nbsp; "He may
cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his advantage
that which I do not think he has a right to exact from me."&nbsp;
That had been the state of her mind towards her father; and now
that he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving
her to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and no
assistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awe
rather than of broken-hearted sorrow.&nbsp; Those who depart must
have earned such sorrow before it can be really felt.&nbsp; They
who are left may be overwhelmed by the death&mdash;even of their most
cruel tormentors.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed;
but it could not probably be said of her with truth that she was
crushed by pure grief.&nbsp; There was fear of all things, fear of
solitude, fear of sudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear
of some necessary movement she knew not whither, fear that she
might be discovered to be a poor wretched impostor who never could
have been justified in standing in the same presence with emperors
and princes, with duchesses and cabinet ministers.&nbsp; This and
the fact that the dead body of the man who had so lately been her
tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardly dare to leave
her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thus more dreadful
even than when alive, utterly conquered her.&nbsp; Feelings of the
same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerful also with
Marie;&mdash;but they did not conquer her.&nbsp; She was strong and
conquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to which
she was in truth superior.&nbsp; In such a household the death of
such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender
sorrow which comes from real love.

<p>She soon knew it all.&nbsp; Her father had destroyed himself,
and had doubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money
had been greater than he could bear.&nbsp; When he had told her
that she was to sign those deeds because ruin was impending, he
must indeed have told her the truth.&nbsp; He had so often lied to
her that she had had no means of knowing whether he was lying then
or telling her a true story.&nbsp; But she had offered to sign the
deeds since that, and he had told her that it would be of no
avail,&mdash;and at that time had not been angry with her as he would
have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin.&nbsp; She
took some comfort in thinking of that.

<p>But what was she to do?&nbsp; What was to be done generally by
that over-cumbered household?&nbsp; She and her pseudo-mother had
been instructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both
obeyed the order.&nbsp; But she herself at this moment cared but
little for any property.&nbsp; How ought she to behave
herself?&nbsp; Where should she go?&nbsp; On whose arm could she
lean for some support at this terrible time?&nbsp; As for love, and
engagements, and marriage,&mdash;that was all over.&nbsp; In her
difficulty she never for a moment thought of Sir Felix
Carbury.&nbsp; Though she had been silly enough to love the man
because he was pleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone
in silliness as to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one
might lean.&nbsp; Had that marriage taken place, she would have
been the staff.&nbsp; But it might be possible that Lord Nidderdale
would help her.&nbsp; He was good-natured and manly, and would be
efficacious,&mdash;if only he would come to her.&nbsp; He was near, and
she thought that at any rate she would try.&nbsp; So she had
written her note and sent it by the butler,&mdash;thinking as she did so
of the words she would use to make the young man understand that
all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying each other was, of
course, to mean nothing now.

<p>It was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown
upstairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor.&nbsp; As
he passed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly
open, he saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the
body of the dead man was still lying there.&nbsp; But he went by
rapidly without a glance within, remembering the look of the man as
he had last seen his burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and
those odious words.&nbsp; And now the man was dead,&mdash;having
destroyed his own life.&nbsp; Surely the man must have known when
he uttered those words what it was that he intended to do!&nbsp;
When he had made that last appeal about Marie, conscious as he was
that every one was deserting him, he must even then have looked his
fate in the face and have told himself that it was better that he
should die!&nbsp; His misfortunes, whatever might be their nature,
must have been heavy on him then with all their weight; and he
himself and all the world had known that he was ruined.&nbsp; And
yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and
had spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be
accomplished!

<p>Nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before Marie
was with him.&nbsp; He walked up to her, took her by both hands,
and looked into her face.&nbsp; There was no trace of a tear, but
her whole countenance seemed to him to be altered.&nbsp; She was
the first to speak.

<p>"I thought you would come when I sent for you."

<p>"Of course I came."

<p>"I knew you would be a friend, and I knew no one else who
would.&nbsp; You won't be afraid, Lord Nidderdale, that I shall
ever think any more of all those things which he was
planning?"&nbsp; She paused a moment, but he was not ready enough
to have a word to say in answer to this.&nbsp; "You know what has
happened?"

<p>"Your servant told us."

<p>"What are we to do?&nbsp; Oh, Lord Nidderdale, it is so
dreadful!&nbsp; Poor papa!&nbsp; Poor papa!&nbsp; When I think of
all that he must have suffered I wish that I could be dead too."

<p>"Has your mother been told?"

<p>"Oh yes.&nbsp; She knows.&nbsp; No one tried to conceal anything
for a moment.&nbsp; It was better that it should be so;&mdash;better at
last.&nbsp; But we have no friends who would be considerate enough
to try to save us from sorrow.&nbsp; But I think it was
better.&nbsp; Mamma is very bad.&nbsp; She is always nervous and
timid.&nbsp; Of course this has nearly killed her.&nbsp; What ought
we to do?&nbsp; It is Mr Longestaffe's house, and we were to have
left it to-morrow."

<p>"He will not mind that now."

<p>"Where must we go?&nbsp; We can't go back to that big place in
Grosvenor Square.&nbsp; Who will manage for us?&nbsp; Who will see
the doctor and the policemen?"

<p>"I will do that."

<p>"But there will be things that I cannot ask you to do.&nbsp; Why
should I ask you to do anything?"

<p>"Because we are friends."

<p>"No," she said, "no.&nbsp; You cannot really regard me as a
friend.&nbsp; I have been an impostor.&nbsp; I know that.&nbsp; I
had no business to know a person like you at all.&nbsp; Oh, if the
next six months could be over!&nbsp; Poor papa,&mdash;poor papa!"&nbsp;
And then for the first time she burst into tears.

<p>"I wish I knew what might comfort you," he said.

<p>"How can there be any comfort?&nbsp; There never can be comfort
again!&nbsp; As for comfort, when were we ever comfortable?&nbsp;
It has been one trouble after another,&mdash;one fear after
another!&nbsp; And now we are friendless and homeless.&nbsp; I
suppose they will take everything that we have."

<p>"Your papa had a lawyer, I suppose?"

<p>"I think he had ever so many,&mdash;but I do not know who they
were.&nbsp; His own clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty
years, left him yesterday.&nbsp; I suppose they will know something
in Abchurch Lane; but now that Herr Croll has gone I am not
acquainted even with the name of one of them.&nbsp; Mr Miles
Grendall used to be with him."

<p>"I do not think that he could be of much service."

<p>"Nor Lord Alfred?&nbsp; Lord Alfred was always with him till
very lately."&nbsp; Nidderdale shook his head.&nbsp; "I suppose
not.&nbsp; They only came because papa had a big house."&nbsp; The
young lord could not but feel that he was included in the same
rebuke.&nbsp; "Oh, what a life it has been!&nbsp; And now,&mdash;now
it's over."&nbsp; As she said this it seemed that for the moment
her strength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of
the sofa.&nbsp; He tried to raise her, but she shook him away,
burying her face in her hands.&nbsp; He was standing close to her,
still holding her arm, when he heard a knock at the front door,
which was immediately opened, as the servants were hanging about in
the hall.&nbsp; "Who are they?" said Marie, whose sharp ears caught
the sound of various steps.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale went out on to
the head of the stairs, and immediately heard the voice of Dolly
Longestaffe.

<p>Dolly Longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the
care of Mr Squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer
had met his father with Mr Bideawhile at the corner of the
square.&nbsp; They were all coming according to appointment to
receive the money which Mr Melmotte had promised to pay them at
this very hour.&nbsp; Of course they had none of them as yet heard
of the way in which the Financier had made his last grand payment,
and as they walked together to the door had been intent only in
reference to their own money.&nbsp; Squercum, who had heard a good
deal on the previous day, was very certain that the money would not
be forthcoming, whereas Bideawhile was sanguine of success.&nbsp;
"Don't we wish we may get it?" Dolly had said, and by saying so had
very much offended his father, who had resented the want of
reverence implied in the use of that word "we".&nbsp; They had all
been admitted together, and Dolly had at once loudly claimed an old
acquaintance with some of the articles around him.&nbsp; "I knew
I'd got a coat just like that," said Dolly, "and I never could make
out what my fellow had done with it."&nbsp; This was the speech
which Nidderdale had heard, standing on the top of the stairs.

<p>The two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who
had opened the door and from the presence of three or four servants
in the hall, that things were not going on in their usual
course.&nbsp; Before Dolly had completed his buffoonery the butler
had whispered to Mr Bideawhile that Mr Melmotte&mdash;"was no more."

<p>"Dead!" exclaimed Mr Bideawhile.&nbsp; Squercum put his hands
into his trousers pockets and opened his mouth wide.&nbsp; "Dead!"
muttered Mr Longestaffe senior.&nbsp; "Dead!" said Dolly.&nbsp;
"Who's dead?"&nbsp; The butler shook his head.&nbsp; Then Squercum
whispered a word into the butler's ear, and the butler thereupon
nodded his head.&nbsp; "It's about what I expected," said
Squercum.&nbsp; Then the butler whispered the word to Mr
Longestaffe, and whispered it also to Mr Bideawhile, and they all
knew that the millionaire had swallowed poison during the night.

<p>It was known to the servants that Mr Longestaffe was the owner
of the house, and he was therefore, as having authority there,
shown into the room where the body of Melmotte was lying on a
sofa.&nbsp; The two lawyers and Dolly of course followed, as did
also Lord Nidderdale, who had now joined them from the lobby
above.&nbsp; There was a policeman in the room who seemed to be
simply watching the body, and who rose from his seat when the
gentlemen entered.&nbsp; Two or three of the servants followed
them, so that there was almost a crowd round the dead man's
bier.&nbsp; There was no further tale to be told.&nbsp; That
Melmotte had been in the House on the previous night, and had there
disgraced himself by intoxication, they had known already.&nbsp;
That he had been found dead that morning had been already
announced.&nbsp; They could only stand round and gaze on the
square, sullen, livid features of the big-framed man, and each
lament that he had ever heard the name of Melmotte.

<p>"Are you in the house here?" said Dolly to Lord Nidderdale in a
whisper.

<p>"She sent for me.&nbsp; We live quite close, you know.&nbsp; She
wanted somebody to tell her something.&nbsp; I must go up to her
again now."

<p>"Had you seen him before?"

<p>"No indeed.&nbsp; I only came down when I heard your
voices.&nbsp; I fear it will be rather bad for you;&mdash;won't it?"

<p>"He was regularly smashed, I suppose?" asked Dolly.

<p>"I know nothing myself.&nbsp; He talked to me about his affairs
once, but he was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth
anything.&nbsp; I believed him then.&nbsp; How it will go, I can't
say."

<p>"That other thing is all over of course," suggested Dolly.&nbsp;
Nidderdale intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing
was all over, and then returned to Marie.&nbsp; There was nothing
further that the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed
from the house;&mdash;not, however, till Mr Bideawhile had given certain
short injunctions to the butler concerning the property contained
in Mr Longestaffe's town residence.

<p>"They had come to see him," said Lord Nidderdale in a
whisper.&nbsp; "There was some appointment.&nbsp; He had told them
to be all here at this hour."

<p>"They didn't know, then?" asked Marie.

<p>"Nothing;&mdash;till the man told them."

<p>"And did you go in?"

<p>"Yes; we all went into the room."&nbsp; Marie shuddered, and
again hid her face.&nbsp; "I think the best thing I can do," said
Nidderdale, "is to go to Abchurch Lane, and find out from Smith who
is the lawyer whom he chiefly trusted.&nbsp; I know Smith had to do
with his own affairs, because he has told me so at the Board; and
if necessary I will find out Croll.&nbsp; No doubt I can trace
him.&nbsp; Then we had better employ the lawyer to arrange
everything for you."

<p>"And where had we better go to?"

<p>"Where would Madame Melmotte wish to go?"

<p>"Anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves.&nbsp; Perhaps
Frankfort would be the best.&nbsp; But shouldn't we stay till
something has been done here?&nbsp; And couldn't we have lodgings,
so as to get away from Mr Longestaffe's house?"&nbsp; Nidderdale
promised that he himself would look for lodgings, as soon as he had
seen the lawyer.&nbsp; "And now, my lord, I suppose that I never
shall see you again," said Marie.

<p>"I don't know why you should say that."

<p>"Because it will be best.&nbsp; Why should you?&nbsp; All this
will be trouble enough to you when people begin to say what we
are.&nbsp; But I don't think it has been my fault."

<p>"Nothing has ever been your fault."

<p>"Good-bye, my lord.&nbsp; I shall always think of you as one of
the kindest people I ever knew.&nbsp; I thought it best to send to
you for different reasons, but I do not want you to come back."

<p>"Good-bye, Marie.&nbsp; I shall always remember you."&nbsp; And
so they parted.

<p>After that he did go into the City, and succeeded in finding
both Mr Smith and Herr Croll.&nbsp; When he reached Abchurch Lane,
the news of Melmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and
more was known or said to be known, of his circumstances than
Nidderdale had as yet heard.&nbsp; The crushing blow to him, so
said Herr Croll, had been the desertion of Cohenlupe,&mdash;that and the
sudden fall in the value of the South Central Pacific and Mexican
Railway shares, consequent on the rumours spread about the City
respecting the Pickering property.&nbsp; It was asserted in
Abchurch Lane that had he not at that moment touched the Pickering
property, or entertained the Emperor, or stood for Westminster, he
must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to do any or all of
those things without danger, simply as the result of the money
which would then have been realized by the railway.&nbsp; But he
had allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively
small sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from
one danger to another, till at last the waters around him had
become too deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him.&nbsp; As to
his immediate death, Herr Croll expressed not the slightest
astonishment.&nbsp; It was just the thing, Herr Croll said, that he
had been sure that Melmotte would do, should his difficulties ever
become too great for him.&nbsp; "And dere vas a leetle ting he lay
himself open by de oder day," said Croll, "dat vas nasty,&mdash;very
nasty."&nbsp; Nidderdale shook his head, but asked no
questions.&nbsp; Croll had alluded to the use of his own name, but
did not on this occasion make any further revelation.&nbsp; Then
Croll made a further statement to Lord Nidderdale, which I think he
must have done in pure good-nature.&nbsp; "Mylor," he said,
whispering very gravely, "de money of de yong lady is all her
own."&nbsp; Then he nodded his head three times.&nbsp; "Nobody can
toch it, not if he vas in debt millions."&nbsp; Again he nodded his
head.

<p>"I am very glad to hear it for her sake," said Lord Nidderdale
as he took his leave.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="87"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXVII.&nbsp; Down at Carbury</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Roger Carbury returned to Suffolk, after seeing his cousins
in Welbeck Street, he was by no means contented with himself.&nbsp;
That he should be discontented generally with the circumstances of
his life was a matter of course.&nbsp; He knew that he was farther
removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was
set.&nbsp; Had Hetta Carbury learned all the circumstances of
Paul's engagement with Mrs Hurtle before she had confessed her love
to Paul,&mdash;so that her heart might have been turned against the man
before she had made her confession,&mdash;then, he thought, she might at
last have listened to him.&nbsp; Even though she had loved the
other man, she might have at last done so, as her love would have
been buried in her own bosom.&nbsp; But the tale had been told
after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his own
interests.&nbsp; Hetta had never heard Mrs Hurtle's name till she
had given herself away, and had declared to all her friends that
she had given herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of
her.&nbsp; The more Roger thought of this, the more angry he was
with Paul Montague, and the more convinced that that man had done
him an injury which he could never forgive.

<p>But his grief extended even beyond that.&nbsp; Though he was
never tired of swearing to himself that he would not forgive Paul
Montague, yet there was present to him a feeling that an injury was
being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for
that injury.&nbsp; He had declined to tell Hetta any part of the
story about Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;actuated by a feeling that he ought not to
betray the trust put in him by a man who was at the time his
friend; and he had told nothing.&nbsp; But no one knew so well as
he did the fact that all the attention latterly given by Paul to
the American woman had by no means been the effect of love, but had
come from a feeling on Paul's part that he could not desert the
woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness.&nbsp;
If Hetta could know everything exactly,&mdash;if she could look back and
read the state of Paul's mind as he, Roger, could read it,&mdash;then
she would probably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that
there was nothing for her to forgive.&nbsp; Roger was anxious that
Hetta's anger should burn hot,&mdash;because of the injury done to
himself.&nbsp; He thought that there were ample reasons why Paul
Montague should be punished,&mdash;why Paul should be utterly expelled
from among them, and allowed to go his own course.&nbsp; But it was
not right that the man should be punished on false grounds.&nbsp;
It seemed to Roger now that he was doing an injustice to his enemy
by refraining from telling all that he knew.

<p>As to the girl's misery in losing her lover, much as he loved
her, true as it was that he was willing to devote himself and all
that he had to her happiness, I do not think that at the present
moment he was disturbed in that direction.&nbsp; It is hardly
natural, perhaps, that a man should love a woman with such devotion
as to wish to make her happy by giving her to another man.&nbsp;
Roger told himself that Paul would be an unsafe husband, a fickle
husband,&mdash;one who might be carried hither and thither both in his
circumstances and his feelings,&mdash;and that it would be better for
Hetta that she should not marry him; but at the same time he was
unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain
amount of deceit.

<p>And yet he had said not a word.&nbsp; He had referred Hetta to
the man himself.&nbsp; He thought that he knew, and he did indeed
accurately know, the state of Hetta's mind.&nbsp; She was wretched
because she thought that while her lover was winning her love,
while she herself was willingly allowing him to win her love, he
was dallying with another woman, and making to that other woman
promises the same as those he made to her.&nbsp; This was not
true.&nbsp; Roger knew that it was not true.&nbsp; But when he
tried to quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out
among themselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that
assurance.

<p>His life at Carbury, at this time, was very desolate.&nbsp; He
had become tired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses,
had never for a moment relaxed his efforts to convert his
friend.&nbsp; Roger had told him once that he must beg that
religion might not be made the subject of further conversation
between them.&nbsp; In answer to this, Father Barham had declared
that he would never consent to remain as an intimate associate with
any man on those terms.&nbsp; Roger had persisted in his
stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his
host's intention to banish him from Carbury Hall.&nbsp; Roger had
made no reply, and the priest had of course been banished.&nbsp;
But even this added to his misery.&nbsp; Father Barham was a
gentleman, was a good man, and in great penury.&nbsp; To ill-treat
such a one, to expel such a one from his house, seemed to Roger to
be an abominable cruelty.&nbsp; He was unhappy with himself about
the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come back to
him.&nbsp; It was already being said of him among his neighbours,
at Eardly, at Caversham, and at the Bishop's palace, that he either
had become or was becoming a Roman Catholic, under the priest's
influence.&nbsp; Mrs Yeld had even taken upon herself to write to
him a most affectionate letter, in which she said very little as to
any evidence that had reached her as to Roger's defection, but
dilated at very great length on the abominations of a certain lady
who is supposed to indulge in gorgeous colours.

<p>He was troubled, too, about old Daniel Ruggles, the farmer at
Sheep's Acre, who had been so angry because his niece would not
marry John Crumb.&nbsp; Old Ruggles, when abandoned by Ruby and
accused by his neighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had
taken freely to that source of consolation which he found to be
most easily within his reach.&nbsp; Since Ruby had gone he had been
drunk every day, and was making himself generally a scandal and a
nuisance.&nbsp; His landlord had interfered with his usual
kindness, and the old man had always declared that his niece and
John Crumb were the cause of it all; for now, in his maudlin
misery, he attributed as much blame to the lover as he did to the
girl.&nbsp; John Crumb wasn't in earnest.&nbsp; If he had been in
earnest he would have gone after her to London at once.&nbsp;
No;&mdash;he wouldn't invite Ruby to come back.&nbsp; If Ruby would come
back, repentant, full of sorrow,&mdash;and hadn't been and made a fool
of herself in the meantime,&mdash;then he'd think of taking her
back.&nbsp; In the meantime, with circumstances in their present
condition, he evidently thought that he could best face the
difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, early
in the day and all day long.&nbsp; This, too, was a grievance to
Roger Carbury.

<p>But he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the
present moment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own
hands.&nbsp; He was making hay at this time in certain meadows down
by the river side; and was standing by while the men were loading a
cart, when he saw John Crumb approaching across the field.&nbsp; He
had not seen John since the eventful journey to London; nor had he
seen him in London; but he knew well all that had occurred,&mdash;how
the dealer in pollard had thrashed his cousin, Sir Felix, how he
had been locked up by the police and then liberated,&mdash;and how he
was now regarded in Bungay as a hero, as far as arms were
concerned, but as being very "soft" in the matter of love.&nbsp;
The reader need hardly be told that Roger was not at all disposed
to quarrel with Mr Crumb, because the victim of Crumb's heroism had
been his own cousin.&nbsp; Crumb had acted well, and had never said
a word about Sir Felix since his return to the country.&nbsp; No
doubt he had now come to talk about his love,&mdash;and in order that
his confessions might not be made before all the assembled
haymakers, Roger Carbury hurried to meet him.&nbsp; There was soon
evident on Crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of delight.&nbsp; As
Roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave a bit of
paper that he had in his hands.&nbsp; "She's a coomin; she's a
coomin," were the first words he uttered.&nbsp; Roger knew very
well that in his friend's mind there was but one "she" in the
world, and that the name of that she was Ruby Ruggles.

<p>"I am delighted to hear it," said Roger.&nbsp; "She has made it
up with her grandfather?"

<p>"Don't know now't about grandfeyther.&nbsp; She have made it up
wi' me.&nbsp; Know'd she would when I'd polish'd t'other un off a
bit;&mdash;know'd she would."

<p>"Has she written to you, then?"

<p>"Well, squoire,&mdash;she ain't; not just herself.&nbsp; I do suppose
that isn't the way they does it.&nbsp; But it's all as one."&nbsp;
And then Mr Crumb thrust Mrs Hurtle's note into Roger Carbury's
hand.

<p>Roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of
Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Since he had first known Mrs Hurtle's name, when
Paul Montague had told the story of his engagement on his return
from America, Roger had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad
woman.&nbsp; It may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced
against all Americans, looking upon Washington much as he did upon
Jack Cade or Wat Tyler; and he pictured to himself all American
women as being loud, masculine, and atheistical.&nbsp; But it
certainly did seem that in this instance Mrs Hurtle was
endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity.&nbsp; "She is a
lady," Crumb began to explain, "who do be living with Mrs Pipkin;
and she is a lady as is a lady."

<p>Roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he
explained that he, too, knew something of Mrs Hurtle, and that he
thought it probable that what she said of Ruby might be true.&nbsp;
"True, squoire," said Crumb, laughing with his whole face.&nbsp; "I
ha' nae a doubt it's true.&nbsp; What's again its being true?&nbsp;
When I had dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her
choice.&nbsp; It was me as was to blame, because I didn't do it
before.&nbsp; I ought to ha' dropped into him when I first heard as
he was arter her.&nbsp; It's that as girls like.&nbsp; So, squoire,
I'm just going again to Lon'on right away."

<p>Roger suggested that old Ruggles would, of course, receive his
niece; but as to this John expressed his supreme
indifference.&nbsp; The old man was nothing to him.&nbsp; Of course
he would like to have the old man's money; but the old man couldn't
live for ever, and he supposed that things would come right in
time.&nbsp; But this he knew,&mdash;that he wasn't going to cringe to
the old man about his money.&nbsp; When Roger observed that it
would be better that Ruby should have some home to which she might
at once return, John adverted with a renewed grin to all the
substantial comforts of his own house.&nbsp; It seemed to be his
idea, that on arriving in London he would at once take Ruby away to
church and be married to her out of hand.&nbsp; He had thrashed his
rival, and what cause could there now be for delay?

<p>But before he left the field he made one other speech to the
squire.&nbsp; "You ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was
coosin to yourself?"

<p>"Not in the least, Mr Crumb."

<p>"That's koind now.&nbsp; I ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth
o' harm, and I don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and
Ruby's once spliced, I'm darned if I don't give 'un a bottle of
wine the first day as he'll come to Bungay."

<p>Roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this
invitation on the part of Sir Felix; but he renewed his assurance
that he, on his own part, thought that Crumb had behaved well in
that matter of the street encounter, and he expressed a strong wish
for the immediate and continued happiness of Mr and Mrs John Crumb.

<p>"Oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said Crumb as he went
exulting out of the field.

<p>On the day after this Roger Carbury received a letter which
disturbed him very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to
return any answer, or what answer.&nbsp; It was from Paul Montague,
and was written by him but a few hours after he had left his letter
for Hetta with his own hands, at the door of her mother's
house.&nbsp; Paul's letter to Roger was as follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
MY DEAR ROGER,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though I know that you have cast me
off from you I cannot write to you in any other way, as any other
way would be untrue.&nbsp; You can answer me, of course, as you
please, but I do think that you will owe me an answer, as I appeal
to you in the name of justice.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You know what has taken place between
Hetta and myself.&nbsp; She had accepted me, and therefore I am
justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me.&nbsp; But
she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that I
am never to see her again.&nbsp; Of course I don't mean to put up
with this.&nbsp; Who would?&nbsp; You will say that it is no
business of yours.&nbsp; But I think that you would not wish that
she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her
right.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Somebody has told her the story of
Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; I suppose it was Felix, and that he had learned
it from those people at Islington.&nbsp; But she has been told that
which is untrue.&nbsp; Nobody knows and nobody can know the truth
as you do.&nbsp; She supposes that I have willingly been passing my
time with Mrs Hurtle during the last two months, although during
that very time I have asked for and received the assurance of her
love.&nbsp; Now, whether or no I have been to blame about Mrs
Hurtle,&mdash;as to which nothing at present need be said,&mdash;it is
certainly the truth that her coming to England was not only not
desired by me, but was felt by me to be the greatest possible
misfortune.&nbsp; But after all that had passed I certainly owed it
to her not to neglect her;&mdash;and this duty was the more incumbent on
me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one.&nbsp; I went down
to Lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place to
her as one known to myself, and because I could not refuse her so
small a favour.&nbsp; You know that it was so, and you know also,
as no one else does, that whatever courtesy I have shown to Mrs
Hurtle in England, I have been constrained to show her.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I appeal to you to let Hetta know
that this is true.&nbsp; She had made me understand that not only
her mother and brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the
story of my acquaintance with Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; Neither Lady
Carbury nor Sir Felix has ever known anything about it.&nbsp; You,
and you only, have known the truth.&nbsp; And now, though at the
present you are angry with me, I call upon you to tell Hetta the
truth as you know it.&nbsp; You will understand me when I say that
I feel that I am being destroyed by a false representation.&nbsp; I
think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of
setting me right, at any rate as far as the truth can do so.&nbsp;
I do not want you to say a word for me beyond that.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours always,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PAUL MONTAGUE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>"What business is all that of mine?"&nbsp; This, of course, was
the first feeling produced in Roger's mind by Montague's
letter.&nbsp; If Hetta had received any false impression, it had
not come from him.&nbsp; He had told no stories against his rival,
whether true or false.&nbsp; He had been so scrupulous that he had
refused to say a word at all.&nbsp; And if any false impression had
been made on Hetta's mind, either by circumstances or by untrue
words, had not Montague deserved any evil that might fall upon
him?&nbsp; Though every word in Montague's letter might be true,
nevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him,
even should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous
impressions.&nbsp; The fact that he had once disgraced himself by
offering to make Mrs Hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of
Hetta Carbury.&nbsp; Such, at least, was Roger Carbury's verdict as
he thought over all the circumstances.&nbsp; At any rate, it was no
business of his to correct these wrong impressions.

<p>And yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all.&nbsp; He did
believe that every word in Montague's letter was true.&nbsp; Though
he had been very indignant when he met Roger and Mrs Hurtle
together on the sands at Lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced
that the cause of their coming there had been precisely that which
Montague had stated.&nbsp; It took him two days to think over all
this, two days of great discomfort and unhappiness.&nbsp; After
all, why should he be a dog in the manger?&nbsp; The girl did not
care for him,&mdash;looked upon him as an old man to be regarded in a
fashion altogether different from that in which she regarded Paul
Montague.&nbsp; He had let his time for love-making go by, and now
it behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not
to lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could
never attain.&nbsp; In such an emergency as this he should do what
was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings.&nbsp;
And yet the passion which dominated John Crumb altogether, which
made the mealman so intent on the attainment of his object as to
render all other things indifferent to him for the time, was
equally strong with Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Unfortunately for Roger,
strong as his passion was, it was embarrassed by other
feelings.&nbsp; It never occurred to Crumb to think whether he was
a fit husband for Ruby, or whether Ruby, having a decided
preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him.&nbsp; But
with Roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamper
him.&nbsp; John Crumb never doubted for a moment what he should
do.&nbsp; He had to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get
her whatever she might cost him.&nbsp; He was always confident
though sometimes perplexed.&nbsp; But Roger had no
confidence.&nbsp; He knew that he should never win the game.&nbsp;
In his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it.&nbsp;
The people around him, from old fashion, still called him the young
squire!&nbsp; Why;&mdash;he felt himself at times to be eighty years
old,&mdash;so old that he was unfitted for intercourse with such
juvenile spirits as those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his
friend Hepworth.&nbsp; Could he, by any training, bring himself to
take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own?

<p>In such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's
letter,&mdash;and he answered it as follows:&mdash;

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I do not know that I am concerned to
meddle in your affairs at all.&nbsp; I have told no tale against
you, and I do not know that I have any that I wish to tell in your
favour, or that I could so tell if I did wish.&nbsp; I think that
you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to Mrs Hurtle, and
disrespectfully to my cousin.&nbsp; Nevertheless, as you appeal to
me on a certain point for evidence which I can give, and which you
say no one else can give, I do acknowledge that, in my opinion, Mrs
Hurtle's presence in England has not been in accordance with your
wishes, and that you accompanied her to Lowestoft, not as her
lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ROGER CARBURY.<br>
<br>
Paul Montague, Esq.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You are at liberty to show this
letter to Miss Carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she
should read the whole!
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>There was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that
spirit of self-sacrifice to which Roger intended to train himself;
and so he himself felt after the letter had been dispatched.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="88"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXVIII.&nbsp; The Inquest</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Melmotte had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the
evening of the same day Madame Melmotte and Marie were removed to
lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at
Hampstead.&nbsp; Herr Croll had known of the place, and at Lord
Nidderdale's instance had busied himself in the matter, and had
seen that the rooms were made instantly ready for the widow of his
late employer.&nbsp; Nidderdale himself had assisted them in their
departure; and the German, with the poor woman's maid, with the
jewels also, which had been packed according to Melmotte's last
orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took the mother and
the daughter.&nbsp; They did not start till nine o'clock in the
evening, and Madame Melmotte at the moment would fain have been
allowed to rest one other night in Bruton Street.&nbsp; But Lord
Nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand
that the inquest would be held early on the following morning, and
Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her point.&nbsp; So
the poor woman was taken away from Mr Longestaffe's residence, and
never again saw the grandeur of her own house in Grosvenor Square,
which she had not visited since the night on which she had helped
to entertain the Emperor of China.

<p>On Saturday morning the inquest was held.&nbsp; There was not
the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the
catastrophe.&nbsp; The servants, the doctor, and the inspector of
police between them, learned that he had come home alone, that
nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found
dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned by prussic
acid.&nbsp; It was also proved that he had been drunk in the House
of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very
much against his will, was called upon to testify.&nbsp; That he
had destroyed himself there was no doubt,&mdash;nor was there any doubt
as to the cause.

<p>In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the
unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and
has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved
condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the
moment.&nbsp; Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict
of insanity, as in that case no further punishment is
exacted.&nbsp; The body can be buried like any other body, and it
can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad.&nbsp;
Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have
been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in
their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts.&nbsp; If the
poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a
decent life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments
made himself specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is
declared to have been mad.&nbsp; Who would be heavy on a poor
clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid doubts to rid
himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other
way?&nbsp; Who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor
woman whose lover and lord had deserted her?&nbsp; Who would remit
to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher who
has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself
powerless to do further good upon earth?&nbsp; Such, and such like,
have of course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of
strangeness may have marked their conduct up to their last known
dealings with their fellow-mortals.&nbsp; But let a Melmotte be
found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his side&mdash;a man who
has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities, a
man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to
buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who
has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had taken him up
as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute who had got
into the House of Commons by false pretences, and had disgraced the
House by being drunk there,&mdash;and, of course, he will not be saved
by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or whatever scornful
grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves with their
wits about them.&nbsp; Just at this moment there was a very strong
feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his having
tumbled over poor Mr Beauchamp in the House of Commons as to the
stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of the
day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible for
his actions when he took the poison.&nbsp; He was <i>felo de
se</i>, and therefore carried away to the cross roads&mdash;or
elsewhere.&nbsp; But it may be imagined, I think, that during that
night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been
driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor
creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained to go.&nbsp;
He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and
could foresee pretty well what would happen.&nbsp; The summons to
attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him.&nbsp; There
were some, among them Croll and Mr Brehgert, who absolutely knew
that he had committed forgery.&nbsp; He had no money for the
Longestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at
once.&nbsp; He had assured himself long ago,&mdash;he had assured
himself indeed not very long ago,&mdash;that he would brave it all like
a man.&nbsp; But we none of us know what load we can bear, and what
would break our backs.&nbsp; Melmotte's back had been so utterly
crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have
justified a verdict of temporary insanity.

<p>But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his
name was hateful.&nbsp; But after that, a certain amount of
whitewashing took place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame
was made to the manes of the departed.&nbsp; In Westminster he was
always odious.&nbsp; Westminster, which had adopted him, never
forgave him.&nbsp; But in other districts it came to be said of him
that he had been more sinned against than sinning; and that, but
for the jealousy of the old stagers in the mercantile world, he
would have done very wonderful things.&nbsp; Marylebone, which is
always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have
returned his ghost to Parliament could his ghost have paid for
committee rooms.&nbsp; Finsbury delighted for a while to talk of
the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done
to death by ungenerous tongues.&nbsp; It was, however, Marylebone
alone that spoke of a monument.

<p>Mr Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession
of it a few days after the verdict.&nbsp; Of course he was
alone.&nbsp; There had been no further question of bringing the
ladies of the family up to town; and Dolly altogether declined to
share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man's
spirit.&nbsp; But there was very much for Mr Longestaffe to do, and
very much also for his son.&nbsp; It was becoming a question with
both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with
the horrible man.&nbsp; It was clear that they could not get back
the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount
which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that
they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by
funds coming out of the Melmotte estate.&nbsp; Dolly, as he sat
smoking upon the stool in Mr Squercum's office, where he now passed
a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a
miracle of ill-usage.

<p>"By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the
governor.&nbsp; There's nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?"

<p>Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found
what pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate.&nbsp; He
had made inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there
must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make
it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly.&nbsp; "They say that
the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and
horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty
thousand.&nbsp; There were a lot of jewels, but the women have
taken them," said Squercum.

<p>"By George, they ought to be made to give up everything.&nbsp;
Did you ever hear of such a thing;&mdash;the very house pulled down,&mdash;my
house; and all done without a word from me in the matter?&nbsp; I
don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties
were properties."&nbsp; Then he uttered sundry threats against the
Bideawhiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of
"making it very hot for them."

<p>It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr Longestaffe that the
management of Melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively
into the hands of Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; Now Brehgert, in spite of his
many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was
perhaps of as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a
patient man.&nbsp; But then he was the man who had wanted to marry
Georgiana Longestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr Longestaffe
had been particularly uncivil.&nbsp; Then there arose necessities
for the presence of Mr Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had
lately lived and had died.&nbsp; The dead man's papers were still
there,&mdash;deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to
destroy;&mdash;and these could not be moved quite at once.&nbsp; "Mr
Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as
it is necessary,&mdash;absolutely necessary," said Mr Longestaffe in
answer to a message which was brought to him; "but he will of
course see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as
soon as possible."&nbsp; But he soon found it preferable to come to
terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was
singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had
received.

<p>All minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which
Mr Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of &pound;300
due to him for the rent of his house in Bruton Street.&nbsp; Then
by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend
of not less than fifty per cent. payable on debts which could
be proved to have been owing by Melmotte, and perhaps of more;&mdash;an
arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly, as it had been
already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due
to him should be satisfied before the father took anything.&nbsp;
Mr Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that he remained in town
that, as regarded himself and his own family, the house in London
should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely
sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at Caversham
should be reduced in number and should cease to wear powder.&nbsp;
All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter,
which she was instructed to read to her daughters.&nbsp; "I have
suffered great wrongs," said Mr Longestaffe, "but I must submit to
them, and as I submit so must my wife and children.&nbsp; If our
son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be
made lighter.&nbsp; His nature I cannot alter, but from my
daughters I expect cheerful obedience."&nbsp; From what incidents
of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it
might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there.&nbsp;
Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her
nuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left
for a combat.&nbsp; I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted
her most; but she said not a word even about that.

<p>But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our
story are anticipated.&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe had remained in London
actually over the 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one
great festival of the year, before the letter was written to which
allusion has been made.&nbsp; In the meantime he saw much of Mr
Brehgert, and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that
gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion,&mdash;so that on
one occasion he even condescended to ask Mr Brehgert to dine alone
with him in Bruton Street.&nbsp; This, too, was in the early days
of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when Mr Longestaffe's
heart had been softened by that arrangement with reference to the
rent.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat singular
conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a
bottle of Mr Longestaffe's old port wine.&nbsp; Hitherto not a word
had passed between them respecting the connection which had once
been proposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had
said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom.&nbsp; But
in this evening Mr Brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such
matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke
his mind in a way that at first startled Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; The
subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to
his own affairs.&nbsp; His loss would be, at any rate, double that
which Mr Longestaffe would have to bear;&mdash;but he spoke of it in an
easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart.&nbsp; "Of
course there's a difference between me and you," he said.&nbsp; Mr
Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there
was of course a very wide difference.&nbsp; "In our affairs,"
continued Brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for
occasional losses.&nbsp; When a gentleman in your position sells a
property he expects to get the purchase-money."

<p>"Of course he does, Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; That's what made it so
hard."

<p>"I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why
he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here
in London.&nbsp; His business was quite irregular, but there was
very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable.&nbsp; He took
us in completely."

<p>"I suppose so."

<p>"It was old Mr Todd that first took to him;&mdash;but I was deceived
as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him
outside of our house.&nbsp; The long and short of it is that I
shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds."

<p>"That's a large sum of money."

<p>"Very large;&mdash;so large as to affect my daily mode of life.&nbsp;
In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my
duty to point out to her that it would be so.&nbsp; I do not know
whether she told you."

<p>This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset
Mr Longestaffe.&nbsp; The reference was certainly most indelicate,
most deserving of censure; but Mr Longestaffe did not know how to
pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover
at the present time so very anxious for Brehgert's assistance in
the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford
to quarrel with the man.&nbsp; But he assumed something more than
his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never
mentioned the fact.

<p>"It was so," said Brehgert

<p>"No doubt;"&mdash;and Mr Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.

<p>"Yes; it was so.&nbsp; I had promised your daughter when she was
good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that
I would maintain a second house when we should be married."

<p>"It was impossible," said Mr Longestaffe,&mdash;meaning to assert
that such hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the
question.

<p>"It would have been quite possible as things were when that
proposition was made.&nbsp; But looking forward to the loss which I
afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I
found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present,
and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe."

<p>"There were other reasons," muttered Mr Longestaffe, in a
suppressed voice, almost in a whisper,&mdash;in a whisper which was
intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for
future reticence.

<p>"There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss
Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me,&mdash;a letter with which
I have not the slightest right to find any fault,&mdash;she seemed to
me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason."

<p>"Why mention this now, Mr Brehgert; why mention this now?&nbsp;
The subject is painful."

<p>"Just because it is not painful to me, Mr Longestaffe; and
because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should
know that it is not painful.&nbsp; I think that throughout I
behaved like a gentleman."&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe, in an agony, first
shook his head twice, and then bowed it three times, leaving the
Jew to take what answer he could from so dubious an oracle.&nbsp;
"I am sure." continued Brehgert, "that I behaved like an honest
man; and I didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over
as if I was in any way ashamed of myself."

<p>"Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest
mended."

<p>"I've nothing more to say, and I've nothing at all to
mend."&nbsp; Finishing the conversation with this little speech
Brehgert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time
that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the
arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.

<p>As soon as he was gone Mr Longestaffe opened the door and walked
about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to
cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact.&nbsp; He
told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be
defiled!&nbsp; How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how
regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honour which
Mr Longestaffe had conferred upon him by asking him to
dinner!&nbsp; Yes;&mdash;yes!&nbsp; A horrid Jew!&nbsp; Were not all
Jews necessarily an abomination?&nbsp; Yet Mr Longestaffe was aware
that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to
quarrel with Mr Brehgert.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="89"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXXIX.&nbsp; "The Wheel of Fortune"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical
work on the Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and
given to the world.&nbsp; Any reader careful as to dates will
remember that it was as far back as in February that she had
solicited the assistance of certain of her literary friends who
were connected with the daily and weekly press.&nbsp; These
gentlemen had responded to her call with more or less zealous aid,
so that the "Criminal Queens" had been regarded in the trade as one
of the successful books of the season.&nbsp; Messrs. Leadham and
Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a fourth and
fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements to give
testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury's book
was about the greatest historical work which had emanated from the
press in the present century.&nbsp; With this object a passage was
extracted even from the columns of the "Evening Pulpit,"&mdash;which
showed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connected
with the establishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter.&nbsp; Lady
Carbury had suffered something in the struggle.&nbsp; What efforts
can mortals make as to which there will not be some
disappointment?&nbsp; Paper and print cannot be had for nothing,
and advertisements are very costly.&nbsp; An edition may be sold
with startling rapidity, but it may have been but a scanty
edition.&nbsp; When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and
Loiter their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a
fear on their part that there would not probably be a third,&mdash;
unless some unforeseen demand should arise,&mdash;she repeated to
herself those well-known lines from the satirist,&mdash;

<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<font size="-1">
"Oh, Amos Cottle, for a moment think<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;What meagre profits spread from pen and ink."
</font>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>

<p>But not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to
further attempts.&nbsp; Indeed she had hardly completed the last
chapter of her "Criminal Queens" before she was busy on another
work; and although the last six months had been to her a period of
incessant trouble, and sometimes of torture, though the conduct of
her son had more than once forced her to declare to herself that
her mind would fail her, still she had persevered.&nbsp; From day
to day, with all her cares heavy upon her, she had sat at her work,
with a firm resolve that so many lines should be always
forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them be what it
might.&nbsp; Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that they might
be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,&mdash;terms not
very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the
manuscript by their reader.&nbsp; The smallness of the sum offered,
and the want of certainty, and the pain of the work in her present
circumstances, had all been felt by her to be very hard.&nbsp; But
she had persevered, and the novel was now complete.

<p>It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special
tale to tell.&nbsp; She had taken to the writing of a novel because
Mr Loiter had told her that upon the whole novels did better than
anything else.&nbsp; She would have written a volume of sermons on
the same encouragement, and have gone about the work exactly after
the same fashion.&nbsp; The length of her novel had been her first
question.&nbsp; It must be in three volumes, and each volume must
have three hundred pages.&nbsp; But what fewest number of words
might be supposed sufficient to fill a page?&nbsp; The money
offered was too trifling to allow of very liberal measure on her
part.&nbsp; She had to live, and if possible to write another
novel,&mdash;and, as she hoped, upon better terms,&mdash;when this should be
finished.&nbsp; Then what should be the name of her novel; what the
name of her hero; and above all what the name of her heroine?&nbsp;
It must be a love story of course; but she thought that she would
leave the complications of the plot to come by chance,&mdash;and they
did come.&nbsp; "Don't let it end unhappily, Lady Carbury," Mr
Loiter had said, "because though people like it in a play, they
hate it in a book.&nbsp; And whatever you do, Lady Carbury, don't
be historical.&nbsp; Your historical novel, Lady Carbury, isn't
worth a&mdash;" Mr Loiter stopping himself suddenly, and remembering
that he was addressing himself to a lady, satisfied his energy at
last by the use of the word "straw."&nbsp; Lady Carbury had
followed these instructions with accuracy.

<p>The name for the story had been the great thing.&nbsp; It did
not occur to the authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to
develop itself and was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to
the title, altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what
appellation might best suit her work when its purpose should have
declared itself.&nbsp; A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a
rose, which by any other name will smell as sweet.&nbsp; "The
Faultless Father," "The Mysterious Mother," "The Lame Lover,"&mdash;such
names as that she was aware would be useless now.&nbsp; "Mary Jane
Walker," if she could be very simple, would do, or "Blanche De
Veau," if she were able to maintain throughout a somewhat
high-stilted style of feminine rapture.&nbsp; But as she considered
that she could best deal with rapid action and strange
coincidences, she thought that something more startling and
descriptive would better suit her purpose.&nbsp; After an hour's
thought a name did occur to her, and she wrote it down, and with
considerable energy of purpose framed her work in accordance with
her chosen title, "The Wheel of Fortune!"&nbsp; She had no
particular fortune in her mind when she chose it, and no particular
wheel;&mdash;but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her the plot
which she wanted.&nbsp; A young lady was blessed with great wealth,
and lost it all by an uncle, and got it all back by an honest
lawyer, and gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all
again in a third volume.&nbsp; And the lady's name was Cordinga,
selected by Lady Carbury as never having been heard before either
in the world of fact or in that of fiction.

<p>And now with all her troubles thick about her,&mdash;while her son
was still hanging about the house in a condition that would break
any mother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore
that she regarded all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury
finished her work, and having just written the last words in which
the final glow of enduring happiness was given to the young married
heroine whose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets
piled at her right hand.&nbsp; She had allowed herself a certain
number of weeks for the task, and had completed it exactly in the
time fixed.&nbsp; As she sat with her hand near the pile, she did
give herself credit for her diligence.&nbsp; Whether the work might
have been better done she never asked herself.&nbsp; I do not think
that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the
tale.&nbsp; But if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she
could induce Mudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the
air for a month should be so loaded with "The Wheel of Fortune," as
to make it necessary for the reading world to have read or to have
said that it had read the book,&mdash;then she would pride herself very
much upon her work.

<p>As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr
Alf was announced.&nbsp; According to her habit, she expressed warm
delight at seeing him.&nbsp; Nothing could be kinder than such a
visit just at such a time,&mdash;when there was so very much to occupy
such a one as Mr Alf!&nbsp; Mr Alf, in his usual mildly satirical
way, declared that he was not peculiarly occupied just at
present.&nbsp; "The Emperor has left Europe at last," he
said.&nbsp; "Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the
inquest sat yesterday.&nbsp; I don't know that there is anything of
interest to-day."&nbsp; Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her
book, rather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had
herself known.&nbsp; Oh, if she could only get Mr Alf!&nbsp; She
had tried it before, and had failed lamentably.&nbsp; She was well
aware of that; and she had a deep-seated conviction that it would
be almost impossible to get Mr Alf.&nbsp; But then she had another
deep-seated conviction, that that which is almost impossible may
possibly be done.&nbsp; How great would be the glory, how infinite
the service!&nbsp; And did it not seem as though Providence had
blessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr Alf to her
just at the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of
her novel without seeming premeditation?

<p>"I am so tired," she said, affecting to throw herself back as
though stretching her arms out for ease.

<p>"I hope I am not adding to your fatigue," said Mr Alf.&nbsp; "Oh
dear no.&nbsp; It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last
six months.&nbsp; Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished
the novel at which I have been working, oh, with such diligence!"

<p>"Oh;&mdash;a novel!&nbsp; When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?"

<p>"You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question.&nbsp; I have
done my part of the work.&nbsp; I suppose you never wrote a novel,
Mr Alf?"

<p>"I?&nbsp; Oh dear no; I never write anything."

<p>"I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the
most.&nbsp; One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's
characters!&nbsp; One loves the loveable so intensely, and hates
with such fixed aversion those who are intended to be hated.&nbsp;
When the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is
all so good.&nbsp; One cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's
own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's own sagacity and
knowledge."

<p>"How very nice!"

<p>"But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of
the coin.&nbsp; On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and
unnatural.&nbsp; The heroine who was yesterday alive with the
celestial spark is found to-day to be a lump of motionless
clay.&nbsp; The dialogue that was so cheery on the first perusal is
utterly uninteresting at a second reading.&nbsp; Yesterday I was
sure that there was my monument," and she put her hand upon the
manuscript; "to-day I feel it to be only too heavy for a
gravestone!"

<p>"One's judgement about one's self always does vacillate," said
Mr Alf in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.

<p>"And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge
correctly of one's own work!&nbsp; I can at any rate trust myself
to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the
critics."

<p>"Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady
Carbury,&mdash;at least not as far as I have observed the
business.&nbsp; It is incapacity.&nbsp; In what little I have done
in the matter, that is the sin which I have striven to
conquer.&nbsp; When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker;
but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed
critics.&nbsp; I think that when I gave up the "Evening Pulpit," I
left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as
knowing their business."

<p>"You given up the 'Pulpit'?" asked Lady Carbury with
astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might
perceive whether any and if so what advantage might be taken of Mr
Alf's new position.&nbsp; He was no longer editor, and therefore
his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist;&mdash;but he
must still have influence.&nbsp; Might he not be persuaded to do
one act of real friendship?&nbsp; Might she not succeed if she
would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him,
tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor struggling
woman?

<p>"Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up.&nbsp; It was a matter of
course that I should do so when I stood for Parliament.&nbsp; Now
that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall
probably stand again."

<p>"And you are no longer an editor?"

<p>"I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the
scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was
committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get
into Parliament while I was managing a newspaper.&nbsp; I never
heard such nonsense.&nbsp; Of course I know where it came from."

<p>"Where did it come from?"

<p>"Where should it come from but the "Breakfast Table"?&nbsp;
Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of
all the men I know he is the most jealous."

<p>"That is so little," said Lady Carbury.&nbsp; She was really
very fond of Mr Broune, but at the present moment she was obliged
to humour Mr Alf.

<p>"It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in
Parliament than an editor of a newspaper,&mdash;that is if he is capable
as an editor."

<p>"No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you."

<p>"The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double
work.&nbsp; I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given
up the paper.&nbsp; I almost regret it."

<p>"I dare say you do," said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely
anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his.&nbsp; "I
suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?"

<p>"Some pecuniary interest;&mdash;nothing more."

<p>"Oh, Mr Alf,&mdash;you could do me such a favour!"

<p>"Can I?&nbsp; If I can, you may be sure I will."&nbsp;
False-hearted, false-tongued man!&nbsp; Of course he knew at the
moment what was the favour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of
course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was
asked.

<p>"Will you?"&nbsp; And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as
she poured forth the words of her prayer.&nbsp; "I never asked you
to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper.&nbsp;
Did I?&nbsp; I did not think it right, and I would not do it.&nbsp;
I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I
bore what was said of me with a good grace.&nbsp; I never
complained.&nbsp; Did I?"

<p>"Certainly not."

<p>"But now that you have left it yourself,&mdash;if you would have the
"Wheel of Fortune" done for me,&mdash;really well done!"

<p>"The 'Wheel of Fortune'!"

<p>"That is the name of my novel," said Lady Carbury, putting her
hand softly upon the manuscript.&nbsp; "Just at this moment it
would be the making of a fortune for me!&nbsp; And oh, Mr Alf, if
you could but know how I want such assistance!"

<p>"I have nothing further to do with the editorial management,
Lady Carbury."

<p>"Of course you could get it done.&nbsp; A word from you would
make it certain.&nbsp; A novel is different from an historical
work, you know.&nbsp; I have taken so much pains with it."

<p>"Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits."

<p>"Don't say that, Mr Alf.&nbsp; The 'Evening Pulpit' is
like,&mdash;oh, it is like,&mdash;like,&mdash;like the throne of heaven!&nbsp; Who
can be justified before it?&nbsp; Don't talk about its own merits,
but say that you will have it done.&nbsp; It couldn't do any man
any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,&mdash;that is
if it were done really con amore."&nbsp; Mr Alf looked at her
almost piteously, and shook his head.&nbsp; "The paper stands so
high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once.&nbsp; A woman
is asking you, Mr Alf.&nbsp; It is for my children that I am
struggling.&nbsp; The thing is done every day of the week, with
much less noble motives."

<p>"I do not think that it has ever been done by the 'Evening
Pulpit.'"

<p>"I have seen books praised."

<p>"Of course you have."

<p>"I think I saw a novel spoken highly of."

<p>Mr Alf laughed.&nbsp; "Why not?&nbsp; You do not suppose that it
is the object of the 'Pulpit' to cry down novels?"

<p>"I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception
here.&nbsp; I would be so thankful;&mdash;so grateful."

<p>"My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have
nothing to do with it.&nbsp; I need not preach to you sermons about
literary virtue."

<p>"Oh, no," she said, not quite understanding what he meant.

<p>"The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate
the justice of my successor."

<p>"I shall never know your successor."

<p>"But I must assure you that on no account should I think of
meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper.&nbsp; I would
not do it for my sister."&nbsp; Lady Carbury looked greatly
pained.&nbsp; "Send the book out, and let it take its chance.&nbsp;
How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves
praise, than to know that it has been eulogized as a mark of
friendship."

<p>"No, I shan't," said Lady Carbury.&nbsp; "I don't believe that
anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except
to friends.&nbsp; I don't know how they manage it, but they
do."&nbsp; Mr Alf shook his head.&nbsp; "Oh yes; that is all very
well from you.&nbsp; Of course you have been a dragon of virtue;
but they tell me that the authoress of the 'New Cleopatra' is a
very handsome woman."&nbsp; Lady Carbury must have been worried
much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her
temper as to bring against Mr Alf the double charge of being too
fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the
justice of his columns to that improper affection.

<p>"At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom
you allude," said Mr Alf, getting up to take his leave; "and I am
quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,&mdash;if there be
any such lady and any such book,&mdash;had never seen her!"&nbsp; And so
Mr Alf departed.

<p>Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also
with Mr Alf.&nbsp; She had not only meant to be piteous, but had
made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away
into anger.&nbsp; She had degraded herself to humility, and had
then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of
chagrin.&nbsp; The world in which she had to live was almost too
hard for her.&nbsp; When left alone she sat weeping over her
sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr Alf and his
conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn.&nbsp; What lies he had
told her!&nbsp; Of course he could have done it had he
chosen.&nbsp; But the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely
worse to her than his lies.&nbsp; No doubt the "Pulpit" had two
objects in its criticisms.&nbsp; Other papers probably had but
one.&nbsp; The object common to all papers, that of helping friends
and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the
"Pulpit."&nbsp; There was the second purpose of enticing readers by
crushing authors,&mdash;as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged
when executions were done in public.&nbsp; But neither the one
object nor the other was compatible with that Aristidean justice
which Mr Alf arrogated to himself and to his paper.&nbsp; She hoped
with all her heart that Mr Alf would spend a great deal of money at
Westminster, and then lose his seat.

<p>On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to
Messrs Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount
of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets.&nbsp;
There was the work of six months; her very blood and brains,&mdash;the
concentrated essence of her mind,&mdash;as she would say herself when
talking with energy of her own performances; and Mr Leadham pitched
it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and
the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under the counter.&nbsp;
An author feels that his work should be taken from him with
fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of
harm's way, till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an
absolutely fireproof safe.&nbsp; Oh, heavens, if it should be
lost!&mdash;or burned!&mdash;or stolen!&nbsp; Those scraps of paper, so
easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be
acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than
their weight in gold!&nbsp; If "Robinson Crusoe" had been
lost!&nbsp; If "Tom Jones" had been consumed by flames!&nbsp; And
who knows but that this may be another "Robinson Crusoe,"&mdash;a better
than "Tom Jones"?&nbsp; "Will it be safe there?" asked Lady
Carbury.

<p>"Quite safe,&mdash;quite safe," said Mr Leadham, who was rather busy,
and perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and
amount of her authorship seemed to him to require.

<p>"It seemed to be,&mdash;put down there,&mdash;under the counter!"

<p>"That's quite right, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; They're left there till
they're packed."

<p>"Packed!"

<p>"There are two or three dozen going to our reader this
week.&nbsp; He's down in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough
to fill the sack."

<p>"Do they go by post, Mr Leadham?"

<p>"Not by post, Lady Carbury.&nbsp; There are not many of them
would pay the expense.&nbsp; We send them by long sea to Glasgow,
because just at this time of the year there is not much
hurry.&nbsp; We can't publish before the winter."&nbsp; Oh,
heavens!&nbsp; If that ship should be lost on its journey by long
sea to Glasgow!

<p>That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr Browne came
to her.&nbsp; There was something in the absolute friendship which
now existed between Lady Carbury and the editor of the "Morning
Breakfast Table," which almost made her scrupulous as to asking
from him any further literary favour.&nbsp; She fully
recognized,&mdash;no woman perhaps more fully,&mdash;the necessity of making
use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach.&nbsp;
With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would
she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw?&nbsp; But this
man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg
him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in
truth know that he ought not to do.&nbsp; He had asked her to marry
him, for which,&mdash;though she had refused him,&mdash;she felt infinitely
grateful.&nbsp; And though she had refused him, he had lent her
money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued
counsel.&nbsp; If he would offer to do this thing for her she would
accept his kindness on her knees,&mdash;but even she could not bring
herself to ask to have this added to his other favours.&nbsp; Her
first word to him was about Mr Alf.&nbsp; "So he has given up the
paper?"

<p>"Well, yes;&mdash;nominally."

<p>"Is that all?"

<p>"I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own
hands.&nbsp; Nobody likes to lose power.&nbsp; He'll share the
work, and keep the authority.&nbsp; As for Westminster, I don't
believe he has a chance.&nbsp; If that poor wretch Melmotte could
beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries,
how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as
they'll get now?"

<p>"He was here yesterday."

<p>"And full of triumph, I suppose?"

<p>"He never talks to me much of himself.&nbsp; We were speaking of
my new book,&mdash;my novel.&nbsp; He assured me most positively that he
had nothing further to do with the paper."

<p>"He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say."

<p>"That was just it.&nbsp; Of course I did not believe him."

<p>"Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can
do.&nbsp; If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say
nothing ill-natured.&nbsp; Let me see,&mdash;what is the name?"

<p>"'The Wheel of Fortune.'"&nbsp; Lady Carbury as she told the
title of her new book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed
of it.

<p>"Let them send it early,&mdash;a day or two before it's out, if they
can.&nbsp; I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the
gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would
dislike.&nbsp; Good-bye.&nbsp; God bless you."&nbsp; And as he took
her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility
were returning to him.

<p>As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it
all,&mdash;thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness,&mdash;it
did not occur to her to call him an old goose again.&nbsp; She felt
now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded
him.&nbsp; That first and only kiss which he had given her, which
she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked
him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot
in her memory.&nbsp; Through it all the man must have really loved
her!&nbsp; Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be?&nbsp;
And how had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had
rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="90"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XC.&nbsp; Hetta's Sorrow</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was
given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend
in any way to alleviate her misery.&nbsp; Even when she had read it
over half-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it
possible that she could be reconciled to the man.&nbsp; It was not
only that he had sinned against her by giving his society to
another woman to whom he had at any rate been engaged not long
since, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to
her,&mdash;but also that he had done this in such a manner as to make
his offence known to all her friends.&nbsp; Perhaps she had been
too quick;&mdash;but there was the fact that with her own consent she
had acceded to her mother's demand that the man should be
rejected.&nbsp; The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carbury
knew that it was so.&nbsp; After this it was, she thought,
impossible that she should recall him.&nbsp; But they should all
know that her heart was unchanged.&nbsp; Roger Carbury should
certainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on the
matter.&nbsp; She would never deny it; and though she knew that the
man had behaved badly,&mdash;having entangled himself with a nasty
American woman,&mdash;yet she would be true to him as far as her own
heart was concerned.

<p>And now he told her that she had been most unjust to him.&nbsp;
He said that he could not understand her injustice.&nbsp; He did
not fill his letter with entreaties, but with reproaches.&nbsp; And
certainly his reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have
done.&nbsp; It was too late now to remedy the evil; but she was not
quite sure within her own bosom that she had not been unjust to
him.&nbsp; The more she thought of it the more puzzled her mind
became.&nbsp; Had she quarrelled with him because he had once been
in love with Mrs Hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding
Mrs Hurtle as her present rival?&nbsp; She hated Mrs Hurtle, and
she was very angry with him in that he had ever been on
affectionate terms with a woman she hated;&mdash;but that had not been
the reason put forward by her for quarrelling with him.&nbsp;
Perhaps it was true that he, too, had of late loved Mrs Hurtle
hardly better than she did herself.&nbsp; It might be that he had
been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go with the woman
to Lowestoft.&nbsp; Having so gone with her, it was no doubt right
that he should be rejected;&mdash;for how can it be that a man who is
engaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another
woman to whom also he was engaged a few months back?&nbsp; But
still there might be hardship in it.&nbsp; To her, to Hetta
herself, the circumstances were very hard.&nbsp; She loved the man
with all her heart.&nbsp; She could look forward to no happiness in
life without him.&nbsp; But yet it must be so.

<p>At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs Hurtle
herself if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by
him.&nbsp; Of course he had known when he wrote it that she could
not and would not go to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; But when the letter had
been in her possession three or four days,&mdash;unanswered, for, as a
matter of course, no answer to it from herself was possible,&mdash;and
had been read and re-read till she knew every word of it by heart,
she began to think that if she could hear the story as it might be
told by Mrs Hurtle, a good deal that was now dark might become
light to her.&nbsp; As she continued to read the letter, and to
brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from her lover
to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger.&nbsp; Paul had
of course behaved badly, very badly,&mdash;but had it not been for them
she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him.&nbsp; They had
driven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could
now see no escape.&nbsp; There had been a plot against her, and she
was a victim.&nbsp; In the first dismay and agony occasioned by
that awful story of the American woman,&mdash;which had, at the moment,
struck her with a horror which was now becoming less and less every
hour,&mdash;she had fallen head foremost into the trap laid for
her.&nbsp; She acknowledged to herself that it was too late to
recover her ground.&nbsp; She was, at any rate, almost sure that it
must be too late.&nbsp; But yet she was disposed to do battle with
her mother and her cousin in the matter&mdash;if only with the object
of showing that she would not submit her own feelings to their
control.&nbsp; She was savage to the point of rebellion against all
authority.&nbsp; Roger Carbury would of course think that any
communication between herself and Mrs Hurtle must be
improper,&mdash;altogether indelicate.&nbsp; Two or three days ago she
thought so herself.&nbsp; But the world was going so hard with her,
that she was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing
propriety and delicacy to the winds.&nbsp; This man whom she had
once accepted, whom she altogether loved, and who, in spite of all
his faults, certainly still loved her,&mdash;of that she was beginning
to have no further doubt,&mdash;accused her of dishonesty, and referred
her to her rival for a corroboration of his story.&nbsp; She would
appeal to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; The woman was odious, abominable, a
nasty intriguing American female.&nbsp; But her lover desired that
she should hear the woman's story; and she would hear the
story,&mdash;if the woman would tell it.

<p>So resolving, she wrote as follows to Mrs Hurtle, finding great
difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither
too little nor too much, and determined that she would be
restrained by no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the
truth about herself.&nbsp; The letter at last was stiff and hard,
but it sufficed for its purpose.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
Madam,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mr Paul Montague has referred me to
you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him
and you.&nbsp; It is right that I should tell you that I was a
short time since engaged to marry him, but that I have found myself
obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of what I have
been told as to his acquaintance with you.&nbsp; I make this
proposition to you, not thinking that anything you will say to me
can change my mind, but because he has asked me to do so, and has,
at the same time, accused me of injustice towards him.&nbsp; I do
not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom
I was once warmly attached.&nbsp; If you will receive me, I will
make it my business to call any afternoon you may name.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours truly,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;HENRIETTA CARBURY.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>

<p>When the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but
very much afraid of it also.&nbsp; What if the American woman
should put it in a newspaper!&nbsp; She had heard that everything
was put into newspapers in America.&nbsp; What if this Mrs Hurtle
should send back to her some horribly insolent answer;&mdash;or should
send such answer to her mother, instead of herself!&nbsp; And then,
again, if the American woman consented to receive her, would not
the American woman, as a matter of course, trample upon her with
rough words?&nbsp; Once or twice she put the letter aside, and
almost determined that it should not be sent;&mdash;but at last, with
desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted it
herself.&nbsp; She told no word of it to any one.&nbsp; Her mother,
she thought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings,
and made her wretched for ever.&nbsp; She could not ask her mother
for sympathy in her present distress.&nbsp; There was no friend who
would sympathize with her.&nbsp; She must do everything alone.

<p>Mrs Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that
she would retire from the contest and own herself to have been
worsted.&nbsp; It is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the
various half resolutions which she formed, and the changing phases
of her mind before she brought herself to this conclusion.&nbsp;
And soon after she had assured herself that this should be the
conclusion,&mdash;after she had told Paul Montague that it should be
so,&mdash;there came back upon her at times other half resolutions to a
contrary effect.&nbsp; She had written a letter to the man
threatening desperate revenge, and had then abstained from sending
it, and had then shown it to the man,&mdash;not intending to give it to
him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that she
might ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that
he had not deserved it.&nbsp; Then she had parted with him,
refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had told
Mrs Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married.&nbsp; At
that moment everything was done that could be done.&nbsp; The game
had been played and the stakes lost,&mdash;and she had schooled herself
into such restraint as to have abandoned all idea of
vengeance.&nbsp; But from time to time there arose in her heart a
feeling that such softness was unworthy of her.&nbsp; Who had ever
been soft to her?&nbsp; Who had spared her?&nbsp; Had she not long
since found out that she must fight with her very nails and teeth
for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be trodden into
the dust?&nbsp; Had she not held her own among rough people after a
very rough fashion, and should she now simply retire that she might
weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl?&nbsp; And she had
been so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her
own wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph!&nbsp;
There were moments in which she thought that she could still seize
the man by the throat, where all the world might see her, and dare
him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean.

<p>Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague,
written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury
and Hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his
engagement to Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the
truth of his own story.&nbsp; It was certainly marvellous to her
that the man who had so long been her own lover and who had parted
with her after such a fashion should write such a letter to
her.&nbsp; But it had no tendency to increase either her anger or
her sorrow.&nbsp; Of course she had known that it was so, and at
certain times she had told herself that it was only natural,&mdash;had
almost told herself that it was right.&nbsp; She and this young
Englishman were not fit to be mated.&nbsp; He was to her thinking a
tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be
wild,&mdash;fitter for the woods than for polished cities.&nbsp; It had
been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to
be bound by tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised
man.&nbsp; The result had been disastrous, as might have been
expected.&nbsp; She was angry with him,&mdash;almost to the extent of
tearing him to pieces,&mdash;but she did not become more angry because
he wrote to her of her rival.

<p>Her only present friend was Mrs Pipkin, who treated her with the
greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions
about the lost lover.&nbsp; "That letter was from Mr Montague?"
said Mrs Pipkin on the morning after it had been received.

<p>"How can you know that?"

<p>"I'm sure it was.&nbsp; One does get to know handwritings when
letters come frequent."

<p>"It was from him.&nbsp; And why not?"

<p>"Oh dear no;&mdash;why not certainly?&nbsp; I wish he'd write every
day of his life, so that things would come round again.&nbsp;
Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love.&nbsp; Why don't he
come again himself, Mrs Hurtle?"

<p>"It is not at all likely that he should come again.&nbsp; It is
all over, and there is no good in talking of it.&nbsp; I shall
return to New York on Saturday week."

<p>"Oh, Mrs Hurtle!"

<p>"I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing.&nbsp;
I came over here for a certain purpose and that has&mdash;gone by.&nbsp;
Now I may just go back again."

<p>"I know he has ill-treated you.&nbsp; I know he has."

<p>"I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs Pipkin."

<p>"I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your
mind out free.&nbsp; I knew it would me if I'd been served in that
way."

<p>"If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be
to the gentleman, and not to any other else.&nbsp; As it is I shall
never speak of it again to any one.&nbsp; You have been very kind
to me, Mrs Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you."

<p>"Oh, Mrs Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me.&nbsp; It
isn't only my feelings.&nbsp; The likes of me can't stand by their
feelings only, as their betters do.&nbsp; I've never been above
telling you what a godsend you've been to me this summer;&mdash;have
I?&nbsp; I've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just
like clockwork.&nbsp; And now you're going away!"&nbsp; Then Mrs
Pipkin began to sob.

<p>"I suppose I shall see Mr Crumb before I go," said Mrs Hurtle.

<p>"She don't deserve it; do she?&nbsp; And even now she never says
a word about him that I call respectful.&nbsp; She looks on him as
just being better than Mrs Buggins's children.&nbsp; That's all."

<p>"She'll be all right when he has once got her home."

<p>"And I shall be all alone by myself," said Mrs Pipkin, with her
apron up to her eyes.

<p>It was after this that Mrs Hurtle received Hetta's letter.&nbsp;
She had as yet returned no answer to Paul Montague,&mdash;nor had she
intended to send any written answer.&nbsp; Were she to comply with
his request she could do so best by writing to the girl who was
concerned rather than to him.&nbsp; And though she wrote no such
letter she thought of it,&mdash;of the words she would use were she to
write it, and of the tale which she would have to tell.&nbsp; She
sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve whether she would
tell the tale,&mdash;if she told it at all,&mdash;in a manner to suit Paul's
purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly to shipwreck.&nbsp;
She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were she so
minded.&nbsp; She could certainly have her revenge after that
fashion.&nbsp; But it was a woman's fashion, and, as such, did not
recommend itself to Mrs Hurdle's feelings.&nbsp; A pistol or a
horsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and
bitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge.&nbsp; If
she abandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story
of her wrongs to another woman.

<p>Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,&mdash;so like the
letter of an Englishwoman, as Mrs Hurtle said to herself.&nbsp; Mrs
Hurtle smiled as she read the letter.&nbsp; "I make this
proposition not thinking that anything you can say to me can change
my mind."&nbsp; Of course the girl's mind would be changed.&nbsp;
The girl's mind, indeed, required no change.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle could
see well enough that the girl's heart was set upon the man.&nbsp;
Nevertheless she did not doubt but that she could tell the story
after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girl should
marry him,&mdash;if she chose to do so.

<p>At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at
all.&nbsp; What was it to her?&nbsp; Let them fight their own
lovers' battles out after their own childish fashion.&nbsp; If the
man meant at last to be honest, there could be no doubt, Mrs Hurtle
thought, that the girl would go to him.&nbsp; It would require no
interference of hers.&nbsp; But after a while she thought that she
might as well see this English chit who had superseded herself in
the affections of the Englishman she had condescended to
love.&nbsp; And if it were the case that all revenge was to be
abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all
the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word
so as to smooth away the existing difficulties?&nbsp; Wild cat as
she was, kindness was more congenial to her nature than
cruelty.&nbsp; So she wrote to Hetta making an appointment.

<br>
<br>
<br>
<blockquote>
<i>
DEAR MISS CARBURY,&mdash;<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If you could make it convenient to
yourself to call here either Thursday or Friday at any hour between
two and four, I shall be very happy to see you.<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yours sincerely,<br>
<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WINIFRED HURTLE.<br>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="91"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCI.&nbsp; The Rivals</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>During these days the intercourse between Lady Carbury and her
daughter was constrained and far from pleasant.&nbsp; Hetta,
thinking that she was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not
speak to her mother of herself or of her troubles.&nbsp; Lady
Carbury watching her, but not daring to say much, was at last
almost frightened at her girl's silence.&nbsp; She had assured
herself, when she found that Hetta was disposed to quarrel with her
lover and to send him back his brooch, that "things would come
round," that Paul would be forgotten quickly,&mdash;or laid aside as
though he were forgotten,&mdash;and that Hetta would soon perceive it to
be her interest to marry her cousin.&nbsp; With such a prospect
before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to
show no tendency to sympathize with her girl's sorrow.&nbsp; Such
heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around
them.&nbsp; Who were the happy people that were driven neither by
ambition, nor poverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy
love, to stifle and trample upon their feelings?&nbsp; She had
known no one so blessed.&nbsp; She had never been happy after that
fashion.&nbsp; She herself had within the last few weeks refused to
join her lot with that of a man she really liked, because her
wicked son was so grievous a burden on her shoulders.&nbsp; A
woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be a lady
without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her
heart,&mdash;her very soul if she were that way troubled,&mdash;to the
procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself.&nbsp; Why should
Hetta hope to be more fortunate than others?&nbsp; And then the
position which chance now offered to her was fortunate.&nbsp; This
cousin of hers, who was so devoted to her, was in all respects
good.&nbsp; He would not torture her by harsh restraint and cruel
temper.&nbsp; He would not drink.&nbsp; He would not spend his
money foolishly.&nbsp; He would allow her all the belongings of a
fair, free life.&nbsp; Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the
assertion that she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her
endeavours to constrain her girl to marry such a man.&nbsp; With a
settled purpose she was severe and hard.&nbsp; But when she found
how harsh her daughter could be in response to this,&mdash;how gloomy,
how silent, and how severe in retaliation,&mdash;she was almost
frightened at what she herself was doing.&nbsp; She had not known
how stern and how enduring her daughter could be.&nbsp; "Hetta,"
she said, "why don't you speak to me?"&nbsp; On this very day it
was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs Hurtle at Islington.&nbsp; She had
said no word of her intention to any one.&nbsp; She had chosen the
Friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the
afternoon to her publisher.&nbsp; There should be no deceit.&nbsp;
Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she had
done.&nbsp; But she considered herself to be emancipated from
control.&nbsp; Among them they had robbed her of her lover.&nbsp;
She had submitted to the robbery, but she would submit to nothing
else.&nbsp; "Hetta, why don't you speak to me?" said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without
making each other unhappy."

<p>"What a dreadful thing to say!&nbsp; Is there no subject in the
world to interest you except that wretched young man?"

<p>"None other at all," said Hetta obstinately.

<p>"What folly it is,&mdash;I will not say only to speak like that, but
to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!"

<p>"How am I to control my thoughts?&nbsp; Do you think, mamma,
that after I had owned to you that I loved a man,&mdash;after I had
owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself,&mdash;I could have myself
separated from him, and then not think about it?&nbsp; It is a
cloud upon everything.&nbsp; It is as though I had lost my eyesight
and my speech.&nbsp; It is as it would be to you if Felix were to
die.&nbsp; It crushes me."

<p>There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which
the mother felt,&mdash;as she was intended to feel it,&mdash;but to which she
could make no reply.&nbsp; It accused her of being too much
concerned for her son to feel any real affection for her
daughter.&nbsp; "You are ignorant of the world, Hetta," she said.

<p>"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate,"

<p>"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before
you?&nbsp; In what little you see around you do you think that
girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their
hearts?"&nbsp; She paused, but Hetta made no answer to this.&nbsp;
"Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can
be to Mr Montague."

<p>"Marie Melmotte!"

<p>"She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours.&nbsp;
The truth is you are indulging a dream.&nbsp; You must wake from
it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have
got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may
live.&nbsp; The world at large has to eat dry bread, and cannot get
cakes and sweetmeats.&nbsp; A girl, when she thinks of giving
herself to a husband, has to remember this.&nbsp; If she has a
fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none
she must allow herself to be chosen."

<p>"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether
she likes the man or not?"

<p>"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be
suitable.&nbsp; I would not have you take a vicious man because he
was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious.&nbsp; Your cousin
Roger, you know&mdash;"

<p>"Mamma," said Hetta, getting up from her seat, "you may as well
believe me.&nbsp; No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my
cousin Roger.&nbsp; It is to me horrible that you should propose it
to me when you know that I love that other man with my whole
heart."

<p>"How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost
contumely?"

<p>"I know nothing of any contumely.&nbsp; What reasons have I to
be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he
ever saw me?&nbsp; It has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable;
but I do not know that I have any right whatever to be angry with
Mr Paul Montague."&nbsp; Having so spoken she walked out of the
room without waiting for a further reply.

<p>It was all very sad to Lady Carbury.&nbsp; She perceived now
that she had driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul
Montague's sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened
the barrier which she had striven to construct between them.&nbsp;
But that which pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view
of life which pervaded all Hetta's thoughts.&nbsp; How was any girl
to live in this world who could not be taught the folly of such
idle dreams?

<p>That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries
of the Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at
King's Cross.&nbsp; She had studied her geography, and she walked
from thence to Islington.&nbsp; She knew well the name of the
street and the number at which Mrs Hurtle lived.&nbsp; But when she
reached the door she did not at first dare to stand and raise the
knocker.&nbsp; She passed on to the end of the silent, vacant
street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and
to arrange the words with which she would commence her strange
petition.&nbsp; And she endeavoured to dictate to herself some
defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her.&nbsp;
Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of
replying to a rough speech.&nbsp; She could at any rate
escape.&nbsp; Should the worst come to the worst, the woman would
hardly venture to impede her departure.&nbsp; Having gone to the
end of the street, she returned with a very quick step and knocked
at the door.&nbsp; It was opened almost immediately by Ruby
Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.

<p>"Oh laws,&mdash;Miss Carbury!" said Ruby, looking up into the
stranger's face.&nbsp; Yes,&mdash;sure enough she must be Felix's
sister.&nbsp; But Ruby did not dare to ask any question.&nbsp; She
had admitted to all around her that Sir Felix should not be her
lover any more, and that John Crumb should be allowed to
return.&nbsp; But, nevertheless, her heart twittered as she showed
Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room.

<p>Though it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil
down.&nbsp; She adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs,
moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle
rose from her chair and came forward to greet her visitor, putting
out both her hands to do so.&nbsp; She was dressed with the most
scrupulous care,&mdash;simply, and in black, without an ornament of any
kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a flower.&nbsp; But with some
woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired herself as to look
her very best.&nbsp; Was it that she thought that she would
vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or that
she was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman
might have graces of her own?&nbsp; As she came forward she was
gentle and soft in her movements, and a pleasant smile played round
her mouth.&nbsp; Hetta, at the first moment, was almost dumbfounded
by her beauty,&mdash;by that and by her ease and exquisite
self-possession.&nbsp; "Miss Carbury," she said with that low, rich
voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as much as her
loveliness, "I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing
you.&nbsp; May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may
look at each other fairly?"&nbsp; Hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing
how to speak a word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed
her veil.&nbsp; She had had no personal description of Mrs Hurtle,
but had expected something very different from this!&nbsp; She had
thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and
a bright colour.&nbsp; As it was they were both of the same
complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes of the
same colour.&nbsp; Hetta thought of all that at the moment,&mdash;but
acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such
as that which this woman owned.&nbsp; "And so you have come to see
me," said Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "Sit down so that I may look at
you.&nbsp; I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury."

<p>"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry."

<p>"Why should I be angry?&nbsp; Had the idea been distasteful to
me I should have declined.&nbsp; I know not why, but it is a sort
of pleasure to me to see you.&nbsp; It is a poor time we women
have,&mdash;is it not,&mdash;in becoming playthings to men?&nbsp; So this
Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also.&nbsp;
Is it so?&nbsp; He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for
aid, if there be any that I can give you.&nbsp; If he were an
American I should say that he had behaved badly to me;&mdash;but as he
is an Englishman perhaps it is different.&nbsp; Now tell me;&mdash;what
can I do, or what can I say?"

<p>"He told me that you could tell me the truth."

<p>"What truth?&nbsp; I will certainly tell you nothing that is not
true.&nbsp; You have quarrelled with him too.&nbsp; It is not so?"

<p>"Certainly I have quarrelled with him."

<p>"I am not curious;&mdash;but perhaps you had better tell me of
that.&nbsp; I know him so well that I can guess that he should give
offence.&nbsp; He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and
cautious as old age itself the next.&nbsp; But I do not suppose
that there has been need for such caution with you.&nbsp; What is
it, Miss Carbury?"

<p>Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult.

<p>"Mrs Hurtle," she said, "I had never heard your name when he
first asked me to be his wife."

<p>"I dare say not.&nbsp; Why should he have told you anything of
me?"

<p>"Because,&mdash;oh, because&mdash;.&nbsp; Surely he ought, if it is true
that he had once promised to marry you."

<p>"That is certainly true."

<p>"And you were here, and I knew nothing of it.&nbsp; Of course I
should have been very different to him had I known
that,&mdash;that,&mdash;that&mdash;"

<p>"That there was such a woman as Winifred Hurtle interfering with
him.&nbsp; Then you heard it by chance, and you were
offended.&nbsp; Was it not so?"

<p>"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids
me ask you.&nbsp; I have not been unjust."

<p>"I am not so sure of that.&nbsp; Shall I tell you what I
think?&nbsp; I think that he has been unjust to me, and that
therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due.&nbsp; I
cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury.&nbsp; To me he has been the
last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved
misfortune.&nbsp; But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for
you to decide."

<p>"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?"

<p>"Because I asked him,&mdash;and because, like many men, he cannot be
ill-natured although he can be cruel.&nbsp; He would have given a
hand not to have gone, but he could not say me nay.&nbsp; As you
have come here, Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth.&nbsp;
He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my
enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you.&nbsp;
I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet I
know not why I should be ashamed.&nbsp; I followed him here to
England&mdash;because I loved him.&nbsp; I came after him, as perhaps a
woman should not do, because I was true of heart.&nbsp; He had told
me that he did not want me;&mdash;but I wanted to be wanted, and I hoped
that I might lure him back to his troth.&nbsp; I have utterly
failed, and I must return to my own country,&mdash;I will not say a
broken-hearted woman, for I will not admit of such a
condition,&mdash;but a creature with a broken spirit.&nbsp; He has
misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am
a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that
I still love.&nbsp; I could not put a dagger into him,&mdash;or I would;
or a bullet,&mdash;or I would.&nbsp; He has reduced me to a nothing by
his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him!&nbsp; I, who have sworn
to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn
without feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him.&nbsp; But
if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an
act of justice."&nbsp; Then she paused and looked up to Hetta as
though expecting a reply.

<p>But Hetta had no reply to make.&nbsp; All had been said that she
had come to hear.&nbsp; Every word that the woman had spoken had in
truth been a comfort to her.&nbsp; She had told herself that her
visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her
condemnation of her lover.&nbsp; She had believed that it was her
intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in
rejecting him.&nbsp; Now she was told that however false her lover
might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to
her.&nbsp; The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul,&mdash;had seemed to
intend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so
spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta.&nbsp; What was it
to Hetta that her lover had been false to this American
stranger?&nbsp; It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that
she should be angry with her lover on that bead.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle
had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take
upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs.&nbsp; In saying that,
Mrs Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs
which she need avenge.&nbsp; It was all done now.&nbsp; If she
could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour,
and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she
would do next.&nbsp; She had not yet told herself she would submit
herself again to Paul Montague.&nbsp; She had only told herself
that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him.&nbsp;
"You have been very kind," she said at last,&mdash;speaking only because
it was necessary that she should say something.

<p>"It is well that there should be some kindness where there has
been so much that is unkind.&nbsp; Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I
speak plainly to you.&nbsp; Of course you will go back to
him.&nbsp; Of course you will be his wife.&nbsp; You have told me
that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have told you the same
story of myself.&nbsp; Your coming here would of itself have
declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account
of his treachery to me."

<p>"Oh, Mrs Hurtle, do not say that of me!"

<p>"But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on
that account.&nbsp; He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am
concerned there is an end of it.&nbsp; You are a girl, whereas I am
a woman,&mdash;and he likes your youth.&nbsp; I have undergone the cruel
roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and
therefore you are softer to the touch.&nbsp; I do not know that you
are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and
you are the victor.&nbsp; I am strong enough to acknowledge that I
have nothing to forgive in you;&mdash;and am weak enough to forgive all
his treachery."&nbsp; Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand,
and was weeping, she knew not why.&nbsp; "I am so glad to have seen
you," continued Mrs Hurtle, "so that I may know what his wife was
like.&nbsp; In a few days I shall return to the States, and then
neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifred
Hurtle.&nbsp; Tell him that if he will come and see me once before
I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help."

<p>When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she
must have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague
again,&mdash;and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his
own.&nbsp; She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely
kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised.&nbsp; As
soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it
all.&nbsp; How full of beauty was the face of that American
female,&mdash;how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a slight taint
of the well-known nasal twang;&mdash;and above all how powerful and at
the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner!&nbsp; That
she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta,
but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by
her, and then have been willing to part from her, was
wonderful.&nbsp; And yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta
Carbury, to this woman!&nbsp; Paul had certainly done well for his
own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.

<p>Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end.&nbsp; She had
been unjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by
repentance and confession.&nbsp; As she walked quickly back to the
railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly
than she had ever done.&nbsp; He had been true to her from the
first hour of their acquaintance.&nbsp; What truth higher than that
has any woman a right to desire?&nbsp; No doubt she gave to him a
virgin heart.&nbsp; No other man had ever touched her lips, or been
allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with unrebuked
admiration.&nbsp; It was her pride to give herself to the man she
loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot
has trodden.&nbsp; But, in taking him, all that she wanted was that
he should be true to her now and henceforward.&nbsp; The future
must be her own work.&nbsp; As to the "now," she felt that Mrs
Hurtle had given her sufficient assurance.

<p>She must at once let her mother know this change in her
mind.&nbsp; When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen,
no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she
might be received with favour,&mdash;but quite determined that nothing
should shake her purpose.&nbsp; She went at once into her mother's
room, having heard from the boy at the door that Lady Carbury had
returned.

<p>"Hetta, wherever have you been?" asked Lady Carbury.

<p>"Mamma," she said, "I mean to write to Mr Montague and tell him
that I have been unjust to him."

<p>"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said Lady Carbury,
rising from her seat.

<p>"Yes, mamma.&nbsp; I have been unjust, and I must do so."

<p>"It will be asking him to come back to you."

<p>"Yes, mamma:&mdash;that is what I mean.&nbsp; I shall tell him that
if he will come, I will receive him.&nbsp; I know he will
come.&nbsp; Oh, mamma, let us be friends, and I will tell you
everything.&nbsp; Why should you grudge me my love?"

<p>"You have sent him back his brooch," said Lady Carbury hoarsely.

<p>"He shall give it me again.&nbsp; Hear what I have done.&nbsp; I
have seen that American lady."

<p>"Mrs Hurtle!"

<p>"Yes;&mdash;I have been to her.&nbsp; She is a wonderful woman."

<p>"And she has told you wonderful lies."

<p>"Why should she lie to me?&nbsp; She has told me no lies.&nbsp;
She said nothing in his favour."

<p>"I can well believe that.&nbsp; What can any one say in his
favour?"

<p>"But she told me that which has assured me that Mr Montague has
never behaved badly to me.&nbsp; I shall write to him at
once.&nbsp; If you like I will show you the letter."

<p>"Any letter to him, I will tear," said Lady Carbury, full of
anger.

<p>"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for
myself."&nbsp; Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent,
left the room without further speech, and immediately opened her
desk that the letter might be written.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="92"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCII.&nbsp; Hamilton K. Fisker Again</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last
chapter,&mdash;ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to
her lover, but in which she had received no reply,&mdash;when two
gentlemen met each other in a certain room in Liverpool, who were
seen together in the same room in the early part of this
chronicle.&nbsp; These were our young friend Paul Montague, and our
not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker.&nbsp; Melmotte had died
on the 18th of July, and tidings of the event had been at once sent
by telegraph to San Francisco.&nbsp; Some weeks before this
Montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company,&mdash;describing its
condition in England as he then believed it to be,&mdash;and urging
Fisker to come over to London.&nbsp; On receipt of a message from
his American correspondent he had gone down to Liverpool, and had
there awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend Mr
Ramsbottom.&nbsp; In the meantime Hetta's letter was lying at the
Beargarden, Paul having written from his club and having omitted to
desire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings.&nbsp; Just
at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well
managed.&nbsp; They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never
received that letter,&mdash;which would have had for him charms greater
than those of any letter ever before written.

<p>"This is a terrible business," said Fisker, immediately on
entering the room in which Montague was waiting him.&nbsp; "He was
the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way."

<p>"He was utterly ruined."

<p>"He wouldn't have been ruined,&mdash;and couldn't have thought so if
he'd known all be ought to have known.&nbsp; The South Central
would have pulled him through almost anything if he'd have
understood how to play it."

<p>"We don't think much of the South Central here now," said Paul.

<p>"Ah;&mdash;that's because you've never above half spirit enough for
a big thing.&nbsp; You nibble at it instead of swallowing it
whole,&mdash;and then, of course, folks see that you're only
nibbling.&nbsp; I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit."

<p>"There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery.&nbsp;
It was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy
himself."

<p>"I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;&mdash;dam clumsy.&nbsp;
I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed
of myself because I trusted such a fellow.&nbsp; That chap
Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag.&nbsp; Only think of
Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!"

<p>"I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco,"
suggested Paul.

<p>"Bu'st up at Frisco!&nbsp; Not if I know it.&nbsp; Why should it
be bu'st up?&nbsp; D'you think we're all going to smash there
because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?"

<p>"He took poison."

<p>"Or p'ison either.&nbsp; That's not just our way.&nbsp; I'll
tell you what I'm going to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon
sharp.&nbsp; These shares are at a'most nothing now in
London.&nbsp; I'll buy every share in the market.&nbsp; I wired for
as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and I'll make
a clean sweep of every one of them.&nbsp; Bu'st up!&nbsp; I'm sorry
for him because I thought him a biggish man;&mdash;but what he's done'll
just be the making of us over there.&nbsp; Will you get out of it,
or will you come back to Frisco with me?"

<p>In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would
not return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his
partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great
railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do
with it.&nbsp; Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not
displeased at the proposed rupture.&nbsp; He was prepared to deal
fairly,&mdash;nay, generously,&mdash;by his partner, having recognized the
wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour
should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had
fully convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner
for Hamilton K. Fisker.&nbsp; Fisker was not only unscrupulous
himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in
others.&nbsp; According to his theory of life, nine hundred and
ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the
thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of
commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage.&nbsp; He
had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty.&nbsp; That
which he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his
power.&nbsp; He was anxious that his bond should be good, and his
word equally so.&nbsp; But the work of robbing mankind in gross by
magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but
also the delight and the ambition of his life.&nbsp; How could a
man so great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul
Montague?&nbsp; "And now what about Winifred Hurtle?" asked Fisker.

<p>"What makes you ask?&nbsp; She's in London."

<p>"Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurdle's at Frisco,
swearing that he'll come after her.&nbsp; He would, only he hasn't
got the dollars."

<p>"He's not dead then?" muttered Paul.

<p>"Dead!&mdash;no, nor likely to die.&nbsp; She'll have a bad time of
it with him yet."

<p>"But she divorced him."

<p>"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer
to say that there's nothing of the kind.&nbsp; She hasn't played
her game badly neither, for she's had the handling of her own
money, and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar.&nbsp;
Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself
till I saw my way clearer out of the wood."

<p>"I'm not thinking of marrying her,&mdash;if you mean that."

<p>"There was a talk about it in Frisco;&mdash;that's all.&nbsp; And I
have heard Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual
that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you
some of these days."&nbsp; To this Paul made no answer, thinking
that he had now both heard enough and said enough about Mrs Hurtle.

<p>On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went
together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the
arrangement of Melmotte's affairs.&nbsp; He put himself into
communication with Mr Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in
Abchurch Lane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway
Company, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as
far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the
Grendalls, father and son, up to London.&nbsp; Lord Alfred, and
Miles with him, had left London a day or two before Melmotte's
death,&mdash;having probably perceived that there was no further
occasion for their services.&nbsp; To Fisker's appeal Lord Alfred
was proudly indifferent.&nbsp; Who was this American that he should
call upon a director of the London Company to appear?&nbsp; Does
not every one know that a director of a company need not direct
unless he pleases?&nbsp; Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even
condescend to answer Fisker's letter;&mdash;but he advised his son to
run up to town.&nbsp; "I should just go, because I'd taken a salary
from the d&#8211;&#8211;&#8211;&#8211; Company," said the careful
father, "but when there I wouldn't say a word."&nbsp; So Miles
Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene.

<p>But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most
sedulously paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter.&nbsp; Till
Fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude at
Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk.&nbsp; Mr Brehgert had
abstained, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such
terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone.&nbsp; Lord
Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do no
more.&nbsp; It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much
good taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he
had been domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir
Felix would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit
to the daughter.&nbsp; But Fisker had not been two days in London
before he went out to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame
Melmotte's presence,&mdash;and he had not been there four days before he
was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was
still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune.

<p>In regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been
induced to abstain from interfering,&mdash;giving up the right to all
the man's plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the
finding of the coroner's verdict,&mdash;not from tenderness to Madame
Melmotte, for whom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf
of such creditors as poor Mr Longestaffe and his son.&nbsp; But
Marie's money was quite distinct from this.&nbsp; She had been
right in her own belief as to this property, and had been right,
too, in refusing to sign those papers,&mdash;unless it may be that that
refusal led to her father's act.&nbsp; She herself was sure that it
was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offered
to sign the papers before her father's death.&nbsp; What might have
been the ultimate result had she done so when he first made the
request, no one could now say.&nbsp; That the money would have gone
there could be no doubt.&nbsp; The money was now hers,&mdash;a fact
which Fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which
belonged to him.

<p>Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a
relief to her in her misery.&nbsp; The world makes great mistakes
as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom Death has
bereaved of a companion.&nbsp; It may be, no doubt sometimes it is
the case, that grief shall be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as
to make any interference with it an additional trouble, and this is
felt also in acute bodily pain, and in periods of terrible mental
suffering.&nbsp; It may also be, and, no doubt, often is the case,
that the bereaved one chooses to affect such overbearing sorrow,
and that friends abstain, because even such affectation has its own
rights and privileges.&nbsp; But Madame Melmotte was neither
crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed.&nbsp; She had
been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the
catastrophe.&nbsp; The man who had been her merciless tyrant for
years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel
power, had succumbed, and shown himself to be powerless against his
own misfortunes.&nbsp; She was a woman of very few words, and had
spoken almost none on this occasion even to her own daughter; but
when Fisker came to her, and told her more than she had ever known
before of her husband's affairs, and spoke to her of her future
life, and mixed for her a small glass of brandy-and-water warm, and
told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future
residence, she certainly did not find him to be intrusive.

<p>And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and
almost won both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not
much, at least more than her mother, of the life to which she had
been introduced.&nbsp; There was something of real sorrow in her
heart for her father.&nbsp; She was prone to love,&mdash;though, perhaps,
not prone to deep affection.&nbsp; Melmotte had certainly been
often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent.&nbsp; And
as she had never been specially grateful for the one, so neither
had she ever specially resented the other.&nbsp; Tenderness, care,
real solicitude for her well-being, she had never known, and had
come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillating between
knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel the next,
as the condition of things which was natural to her.&nbsp; When her
father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the
knickknacks, and forgot the knocks and blows.&nbsp; But she was not
beyond consolation, and she also found consolation in Mr Fisker's
visits.

<p>"I used to sign a paper every quarter," she said to Fisker, as
they were walking together one evening in the lanes round
Hampstead.

<p>"You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the
paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to
draw the money for yourself."

<p>"And can that be done over in California?"

<p>"Just the same as here.&nbsp; Your bankers will manage it all
for you without the slightest trouble.&nbsp; For the matter of that
I'll do it, if you'll trust me.&nbsp; There's only one thing
against it all, Miss Melmotte."

<p>"And what's that?"

<p>"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't
know how you'll get on among us Americans.&nbsp; We're a pretty
rough lot, I guess.&nbsp; Though, perhaps, what you lose in the
look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour."&nbsp; This
Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that
the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to
atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been
used.

<p>"I hate swells," said Marie, flashing round upon him.

<p>"Do you now?"

<p>"Like poison.&nbsp; What's the use of 'em?&nbsp; They never mean
a word that they say,&mdash;and they don't say so many words either.&nbsp;
They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about
anybody.&nbsp; I hate London."

<p>"Do you now?"

<p>"Oh, don't I?"

<p>"I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?"

<p>"I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place."

<p>"Very jolly I find it.&nbsp; And I wonder whether you'd
hate&mdash;me?"

<p>"Mr Fisker, that's nonsense.&nbsp; Why should I hate anybody?"

<p>"But you do.&nbsp; I've found out one or two that you don't
love.&nbsp; If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate
me, you know."&nbsp; Then he took her gently by the arm;&mdash;but she,
whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself.&nbsp; Then
they returned to their lodgings, and Mr Fisker, before he went back
to London, mixed a little warm brandy-and-water for Madame
Melmotte.&nbsp; I think that upon the whole Madame Melmotte was
more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor
Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly not a thing
beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.

<p>"I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know," Fisker
said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.&nbsp; Miles, remembering
his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with
assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to
censure his performances.&nbsp; Fisker had made three or four
remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague
and to Croll, who were present.&nbsp; He had invited also the
attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr
Longestaffe, who were all Directors;&mdash;but none of them had
come.&nbsp; Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's
letter.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale had written a short but
characteristic reply.&nbsp; "Dear Mr Fisker,&mdash;I really don't know
anything about it.&nbsp; Yours, Nidderdale."&nbsp; Mr Longestaffe,
with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his
reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be
troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused
to the end.&nbsp; "Upon my word," continued Fisker, "it's
astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind
of thing.&nbsp; I suppose you understand something of business, Mr
Croll?"

<p>"It vas not my department, Mr Fisker," said the German.

<p>"Nor anybody else's either," said the domineering
American.&nbsp; "Of course it's on the cards, Mr Grendall, that we
shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain
things we must get at."&nbsp; Miles was silent as the grave, but at
once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some
pleasant but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal
retirement should be commenced within a very few days;&mdash;or perhaps
hours might suffice.

<p>But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat.&nbsp; In truth the
greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought,
were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco.&nbsp; Miles
underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and
when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte's
secrets.&nbsp; He did, however, go to Germany, finding that a
temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more
respects than one,&mdash;and need not be heard of again in these pages.

<p>When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found
to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved
liabilities.&nbsp; Very many men started up with huge claims,
asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was
hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been
unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others.&nbsp; Some, no doubt,
as was the case with poor Mr Brehgert, had speculated in dependence
on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily without
dishonesty.&nbsp; But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were
able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very
sad.&nbsp; Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the
day, and was able, under Mr Squercum's guidance, to start himself
on a new career.&nbsp; Having paid his debts, and with still a
large balance at his bankers, he assured his friend Nidderdale that
he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf.&nbsp; "I shall just
make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the
bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do
everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong.&nbsp; I like
Squercum."

<p>"Won't he rob you, old fellow?" suggested Nidderdale,

<p>"Of course he will;&mdash;but be won't let any one else do it.&nbsp;
One has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a
system.&nbsp; If he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every
sovereign I think I can get along."&nbsp; Let us hope that Mr
Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly was enabled to live in
accordance with his virtuous resolutions,

<p>But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the
winter,&mdash;long after Mr Fisker's departure for California.&nbsp;
That, however, was protracted till a day much later than he
anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and
Marie.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him for a while
almost exclusively.&nbsp; The furniture and plate were of course
sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take
whatever she declared to be specially her own property;&mdash;and,
though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was made to
recover them.&nbsp; Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up,
assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for
her maintenance.&nbsp; But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow
would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her
jewels.&nbsp; It was agreed between her and Fisker that they were
to be taken to New York.&nbsp; "You'll get as much there as in
London, if you like to part with them; and nobody'll say anything
about it there.&nbsp; You couldn't sell a locket or chain here
without all the world talking about it."

<p>In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's
hands with the most absolute confidence,&mdash;and, indeed, with a
confidence that was justified by its results.&nbsp; It was not by
robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself
great.&nbsp; To Madame Melmotte's thinking, Fisker was the finest
gentleman she had ever met,&mdash;so infinitely pleasanter in his manner
than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious, with
so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendall, understanding
her so much better than any man had ever done,&mdash;especially when he
supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet
brandy-and-water.&nbsp; "I shall do whatever he tells me," she said
to Marie.&nbsp; "I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this
country."

<p>"I'm willing to go," said Marie.&nbsp; "I don't want to stay in
London."

<p>"I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?"

<p>"I don't know anything about that," said Marie.&nbsp; "A man may
be very well without one's wanting to marry him.&nbsp; I don't
think I'll marry anybody.&nbsp; What's the use?&nbsp; It's only
money.&nbsp; Nobody cares for anything else.&nbsp; Fisker's all
very well; but he only wants the money.&nbsp; Do you think Fisker'd
ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything?&nbsp; Not he!&nbsp;
He ain't slow enough for that."

<p>"I think he's a very nice young man," said Madame Melmotte.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="93"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCIII.&nbsp; A True Lover</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Hetta Carbury, out of the fullness of her heart, having made up
her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a
letter full of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length
all the details of her meeting with Mrs Hurtle, and bidding him
come back to her, and bring the brooch with him.&nbsp; But this
letter she had unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had
written to her from that club; and partly through his own fault,
and partly through the demoralization of that once perfect
establishment, the letter never reached his hands.&nbsp; When,
therefore, he returned to London he was justified in supposing that
she had refused even to notice his appeal.&nbsp; He was, however,
determined that he would still make further struggles.&nbsp; He
had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle,
Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all inimical to
him.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle, though she had declared that she would not
rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter.&nbsp;
Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a
traitor.&nbsp; And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been
and always would be opposed to the match.&nbsp; But Hetta had owned
that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been
proud of his admiration.&nbsp; And Paul, though he did not probably
analyse very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt
instinctively that, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his
prospects could not be altogether hopeless.&nbsp; And yet how
should he continue the struggle?&nbsp; With what weapons should he
carry on the fight?&nbsp; The writing of letters is but a
one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are
written will not answer them; and the calling at a door at which
the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission,
becomes disagreeable,&mdash;if not degrading,&mdash;after a time.

<p>But Hetta had written a second epistle,&mdash;not to her lover, but
to one who received his letters with more regularity.&nbsp; When
she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul
Montague, she at once communicated the fact to her mother, and
through her mother to her cousin Roger.&nbsp; Though she would not
recognize Roger as a lover, she did acknowledge him to be the head
of her family, and her own special friend, and entitled in some
special way to know all that she herself did, and all that was done
in regard to her.&nbsp; She therefore wrote to her cousin, telling
him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced
that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and,
in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and most ill-used of
human beings.&nbsp; In her enthusiasm she went on to declare that
there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world
than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her dearest
friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an
aiding hand.&nbsp; There are those whom strong words in letters
never affect at all,&mdash;who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what
they do read as meaning no more than half what is said.&nbsp; But
Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these.&nbsp; As he sat on
the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand,
her words had their full weight with him.&nbsp; He did not try to
convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic
girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of
thinking by fitting admonitions.&nbsp; To him now, as he read and
re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any
rate further hope for himself.&nbsp; Though he was altogether
unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of
change,&mdash;though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look
forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom
he had loved,&mdash;yet he told himself what he believed to be the
truth.&nbsp; At last he owned directly and plainly that, whether
happy or unhappy, he must do without her.&nbsp; He had let time
slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to
love.&nbsp; He must now stomach his disappointment, and make the
best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to
him.&nbsp; But, if he acknowledged this,&mdash;and he did acknowledge
it,&mdash;in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman
who had reduced him so low?

<p>At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts.&nbsp; If it
were possible he would be unselfish.&nbsp; He could not, indeed,
bring himself to think with kindness of Paul Montague.&nbsp; He
could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to
him, nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason.&nbsp; But he
did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Hetta the man
was nothing to him.&nbsp; It could hardly be worth his while to
maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure
Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should still be dear to
him as a friend might be dear.&nbsp; He was well aware that such
assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much.&nbsp; If it
were to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and
must be to him as his heir,&mdash;as near as possible his own
child.&nbsp; In her favour he must throw aside that law of
primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto
minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spite of the absolute
unfitness of the wretched young man.&nbsp; All this must be
changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent
to the marriage.&nbsp; In such case Carbury must be the home of the
married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so.&nbsp;
There must be born the future infant to whose existence he was
already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might
there find comfort.&nbsp; In such case, though he should never
again be able to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must
live with him for her sake on affectionate terms.&nbsp; He must
forgive Hetta altogether,&mdash;as though there had been no fault; and
he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might.&nbsp;
Struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of
justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself.&nbsp; He could
not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used.&nbsp; And
ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to the
forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself
whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such
trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague!&nbsp;
Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta
should be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be
treated as though he were pardoned.&nbsp; As for himself,&mdash;the
chances of the world had been unkind to him, and he would submit to
them!

<p>Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter.&nbsp; Perhaps
he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the
writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last
chance.&nbsp; Hetta's letter to himself hardly required an
immediate answer,&mdash;did not, indeed, demand any answer.&nbsp; She
had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons
quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the
conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer.&nbsp; She had
asked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger
felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition
than by any positive action, Roger's influence with her mother was
the assistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that
influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter.&nbsp;
Thinking of all this, Roger determined that he would again go up to
London.&nbsp; He would have the vacant hours of the journey in
which to think of it all again, and tell himself whether it was
possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage;&mdash;and
then he would see the people, and perhaps learn something further
from their manner and their words, before he finally committed
himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of
theirs.

<p>He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours
served him much.&nbsp; To a man not accustomed to thinking there is
nothing in the world so difficult as to think.&nbsp; After some
loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach
some decision, guided probably by our feelings at the last moment
rather than by any process of ratiocination;&mdash;and then we think
that we have thought.&nbsp; But to follow out one argument to an
end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of
another, is not common to us.&nbsp; Such a process was hardly
within the compass of Roger's mind,&mdash;who when he was made wretched
by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable
provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable
resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely
at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up
at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the
heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere
with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself
and much fitter to enjoy the world.&nbsp; But he had had a bath,
and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.

<p>The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early
hour.&nbsp; When he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he
would ask for Lady Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire
whether "the ladies" were at home.&nbsp; The ladies were reported
as being at home, and he was at once shown into the drawing-room,
where Hetta was sitting.&nbsp; She hurried up to him, and he at
once took her in his arms and kissed her.&nbsp; He had never done
such a thing before.&nbsp; He had never even kissed her hand.&nbsp;
Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her
after that fashion.&nbsp; Her instinct told her immediately that
such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with
her wishes.&nbsp; That this man should kiss her as her best and
dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her
brother, was certainly to her no offence.&nbsp; She could cling to
him in fondest love,&mdash;if he would only consent not to be her
lover.&nbsp; "Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you," she said,
escaping gently from his arms.

<p>"I could not write an answer, and so I came."

<p>"You always do the kindest thing that can be done."

<p>"I don't know.&nbsp; I don't know that I can do anything
now,&mdash;kind or unkind.&nbsp; It is all done without any aid from
me.&nbsp; Hetta, you have been all the world to me."

<p>"Do not reproach me," she said.

<p>"No;&mdash;no.&nbsp; Why should I reproach you?&nbsp; You have
committed no fault.&nbsp; I should not have come had I intended to
reproach any one."

<p>"I love you so much for saying that."

<p>"Let it be as you wish it,&mdash;if it must.&nbsp; I have made up my
mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it."&nbsp; As he said
this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his
shoulder and began to weep.&nbsp; "And still you will be all the
world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist.&nbsp; "As
you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."

<p>"I will be your sister, Roger."

<p>"My daughter rather.&nbsp; You shall be all that I have in the
world.&nbsp; I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as
the old feel for the young.&nbsp; And if you have a child, Hetta,
he must be my child."&nbsp; As he thus spoke her tears were
renewed.&nbsp; "I have planned it all out in my mind, dear.&nbsp;
There!&nbsp; If there be anything that I can do to add to your
happiness, I will do it.&nbsp; You must believe this of me,&mdash;that
to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."

<p>It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the
man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even
condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come
back to her.&nbsp; And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the
tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her
intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name
of Paul Montague.&nbsp; "Have you seen him?" she said in a whisper.

<p>"Seen whom?"

<p>"Mr Montague."

<p>"No;&mdash;why should I have seen him?&nbsp; It is not for his sake
that I am here."

<p>"But you will be his friend?"

<p>"Your husband shall certainly be my friend;&mdash;or, if not, the
fault shall not be mine.&nbsp; It shall all be forgotten,
Hetta,&mdash;as nearly as such things may be forgotten.&nbsp; But I had
nothing to say to him till I had seen you."&nbsp; At that moment
the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered the room, and, after
her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then
at Roger.&nbsp; "I have come up," said he, "to signify my adhesion
to this marriage."&nbsp; Lady Carbury's face fell very low.&nbsp;
"I need not speak again of what were my own wishes.&nbsp; I have
learned at last that it could not have been so."

<p>"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.

<p>"Pray, pray, mamma&mdash;," Hetta began, but was unable to find words
with which to go on with her prayer.

<p>"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady
Carbury.&nbsp; "I think it is very much in your own hands.&nbsp; Of
course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not
in accord with your own wishes."

<p>"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.

<p>"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Yes; mamma,&mdash;yes," cried Hetta boldly.&nbsp; "It is so.&nbsp; I
am engaged to him."

<p>"I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my
consent,&mdash;nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the
consent of Mr Montague himself."

<p>"Mamma!"

<p>"Paul Montague!" ejaculated Roger Carbury.&nbsp; "The consent of
Paul Montague!&nbsp; I think I may take upon myself to say that
there can be no doubt as to that."

<p>"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.

<p>"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"

<p>"I wrote to him,&mdash;and he has not answered me," said Hetta
piteously.

<p>Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of
what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable
patience.&nbsp; "The marriage is on every account objectionable,"
she said at last, "His means are precarious.&nbsp; His conduct with
regard to that woman has been very bad.&nbsp; He has been sadly
mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself.&nbsp; And
now, when Henrietta has written to him without my sanction,&mdash;in
opposition to my express commands,&mdash;he takes no notice of
her.&nbsp; She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made
her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so.&nbsp; I trust that
his resentment may be continued."

<p>Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and
weeping.&nbsp; Roger stood perfectly still, listening with
respectful silence till Lady Carbury had spoken her last
word.&nbsp; And even then he was slow to answer, considering what
he might best say.&nbsp; "I think I had better see him," he
replied.&nbsp; "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's
letter, that matter will be set at rest.&nbsp; We must not take
advantage of such an accident as that.&nbsp; As to his
income,&mdash;that I think may be managed.&nbsp; His connection with Mr
Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his."&nbsp; At
this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's great anxiety
to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous to
say a word on that head.&nbsp; "I will see him, Lady Carbury, and
then I will come to you again."

<p>Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him
to see Paul Montague.&nbsp; She knew that if he really threw
himself into the scale against her, her opposition would weigh
nothing.&nbsp; He was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of
character,&mdash;and had been too often admitted by herself to be the
guardian angel of the family,&mdash;for her to stand against him.&nbsp;
But she still thought that had he persevered, Hetta would have
become his wife.

<p>It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who
had only then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,&mdash;whose
subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.

<p>"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.

<p>"You wrote to her?"

<p>"Certainly I wrote to her.&nbsp; I wrote to her twice.&nbsp; My
last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered.&nbsp;
She had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story
when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my
journey to Lowestoft with Mrs Hurtle."&nbsp; Paul pleaded his own
case with indignant heat, not understanding at first that Roger had
come to him on a friendly mission.

<p>"She did answer your letter."

<p>"I have not had a line from her;&mdash;not a word!"

<p>"She did answer your letter."

<p>"What did she say to me?"

<p>"Nay,&mdash;you must ask her that."

<p>"But if she will not see me?"

<p>"She will see you.&nbsp; I can tell you that.&nbsp; And I will
tell you this also;&mdash;that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the
lover whom she does wish to see."

<p>"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.

<p>"I am here especially to tell you that it is true.&nbsp; I
should hardly come on such a message if there were a doubt.&nbsp;
You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear,&mdash;unless, indeed,
it be the opposition of her mother."

<p>"She is stronger than her mother," said Paul.

<p>"I think she is.&nbsp; And now I wish you to hear what I have to
say."

<p>"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly.&nbsp; Up to this
moment Roger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings,
had not communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger.&nbsp;
His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh;
and Paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his
old friend had written him, did not expect personal kindness.&nbsp;
Roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he
must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his
assistance.

<p>"You know my what feelings have been," Roger began, "and how
deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my
affections.&nbsp; But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the
rights of it may be&mdash;"

<p>"I have never quarrelled with you," Paul began.

<p>"If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better.&nbsp;
No anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be
allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we
both love better than all the rest of the world put together."

<p>"I do," said Paul.

<p>"And so do I;&mdash;and so I always shall.&nbsp; But she is to be
your wife.&nbsp; She shall be my daughter.&nbsp; She shall have my
property,&mdash;or her child shall be my heir.&nbsp; My house shall be
her house,&mdash;if you and she will consent to make it so.&nbsp; You
will not be afraid of me.&nbsp; You know me, I think, too well for
that.&nbsp; You may now count on any assistance you could have from
me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage.&nbsp; I do
this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object
of mine.&nbsp; Now good night.&nbsp; Don't say anything about it at
present.&nbsp; By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these
things with more equable temper."&nbsp; Having so spoken he hurried
out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings
which had been announced to him.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="94"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCIV.&nbsp; John Crumb's Victory</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk
for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb.&nbsp; John
Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to
Ruby,&mdash;who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best
grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied
her future husband,&mdash;had been intensely grateful to Mrs Hurtle, and
almost munificent in liberality to Mrs Pipkin, to whom he presented
a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on
a former occasion.&nbsp; During this visit he had expressed no
anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the
baronite.&nbsp; When informed by Mrs Pipkin, who hoped thereby to
please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still "all one mash
of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much
worse for a "few sich taps as them."&nbsp; He only stayed a few
hours in London, but during these few hours he settled
everything.&nbsp; When Mrs Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be
married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the
suggestion with thanks.&nbsp; Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under
the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming
feeble.&nbsp; John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not
be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred
pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might
at any rate be secured.&nbsp; He was of opinion that the marriage
should be celebrated in Suffolk,&mdash;the feast being spread at Sheep's
Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,&mdash;and if
not, at his own house.&nbsp; When both the ladies explained to him
that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the
habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that,
under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws
of the world might be suspended.&nbsp; "It ain't jist like other
folks, after all as we've been through," said he,&mdash;meaning probably
to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to
give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased.&nbsp; But whether
the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by
himself he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that
he would bid the guests.&nbsp; He invited both Mrs Pipkin and Mrs
Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs Hurtle to promise
that she would bring Mrs Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion.

<p>Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it
was of course essential that Ruby should be consulted.&nbsp; During
the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that
the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the
matter in hand.&nbsp; She was brought up to be kissed, and having
been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only
expressed one wish of her own,&mdash;namely, that Joe Mixet might not
have anything to do with the affair.&nbsp; But the day could not be
fixed without her, and she was summoned.&nbsp; Crumb had been
absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday,&mdash;making his proposition
on a Friday.&nbsp; They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to
eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay.&nbsp;
"That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and as the
two elder ladies had supported her Mr Crumb yielded with a good
grace.&nbsp; He did not himself appreciate the reasons given
because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any
shop.&nbsp; But Mrs Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't
know anything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he
only scratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford
fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take
precedence of business.&nbsp; If Tuesday would have suited the
ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the
marriage and the fair, but when Mrs Pipkin told him that he must
not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace.&nbsp; He
merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to
the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk,
revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial
triumph which he had at last achieved.

<p>Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to
forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the
marriage.&nbsp; When John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets,
informed all Bungay that he had returned victorious from London,
and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship Ruby was to
become his wife on a fixed day, all Bungay took his part, and
joined in a general attack upon Mr Daniel Ruggles.&nbsp; The
cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the
girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away
with the baronite.&nbsp; But this assertion was met by so strong a
torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out
of his own convictions.&nbsp; It is to be feared that many lies
were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a
fortnight since to take away her character.&nbsp; But it had become
an acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any
hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles
had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word
unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in
John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all
male lips in the town.&nbsp; And though perhaps some slight
suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be whispered by
the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of
Mr Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the
grandfather could not stand against it.&nbsp; "I don't see why I
ain't to do as I likes with my own," he said to Joe Mixet, the
baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations
sent by the municipality of Bungay.

<p>"She's your own flesh and blood, Mr Ruggles," said the baker.

<p>"No; she ain't;&mdash;no more than she's a Pipkin.&nbsp; She's taken
up with Mrs Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses.&nbsp; Let Mrs
Pipkin give 'em a breakfast."

<p>"She is your own flesh and blood,&mdash;and your name, too, Mr
Ruggles.&nbsp; And she's going to be the respectable wife of a
respectable man, Mr Ruggles."

<p>"I won't give 'em no breakfast;&mdash;that's flat," said the farmer.

<p>But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base
his opposition on one immaterial detail.&nbsp; The breakfast was to
be given at the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all
sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was
known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom.&nbsp; Nor
would Mr Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days
he had promised to do.&nbsp; He was very clear in his mind that his
undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby's
departure from Sheep's Acre.&nbsp; When he was reminded that he had
nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had
thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the
assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her
fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault.&nbsp; It was
not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as
much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing.&nbsp;
But, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby,
he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at
his death,&mdash;an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet
thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them
aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the
increase.&nbsp; And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs
Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the
marriage.&nbsp; This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr
Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly
from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an
overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited
his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into
compliance,&mdash;not, however, till she had promised to send out the
tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be
necessary for Mrs Pipkin on the evening preceding the
marriage.&nbsp; A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for
the special accommodation of Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;who was supposed to be a
lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's
Acre Farm.

<p>On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment
clouded the bridegroom's brow.&nbsp; Ruby had demanded that Joe
Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the
urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,&mdash;as far, at least,
as silence can give consent.&nbsp; And yet he felt himself unable
to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him
without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much
study to the matter.&nbsp; "You could come in behind like, Joe,
just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.

<p>"Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may
be sure.&nbsp; You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that
way, John?"&nbsp; John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on
his forehead.&nbsp; "It was only just something for her to
say.&nbsp; What have I done that she should object to me?"

<p>"You didn't ever go for to&mdash;kiss her,&mdash;did you, Joe?"

<p>"What a one'er you are!&nbsp; That wouldn't 'a set her again
me.&nbsp; It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a
man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other
way.&nbsp; Don't you notice nothing about it.&nbsp; When we're all
in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there.&nbsp;
I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends
in Bungay before six months are gone."

<p>"Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I
must know the reason why."&nbsp; But John Crumb's heart was too big
for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his
best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby, after the
ceremony.

<p>He met the ladies at the station and,&mdash;for him,&mdash;was quite
eloquent in his welcome to Mrs Hurtle and Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; To Ruby
he said but little.&nbsp; But he looked at her in her new hat, and
generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great
delight.&nbsp; "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs
Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who
had accompanied him on the occasion.&nbsp; Ruby, hearing her
praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to
Mrs Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were
within a yard or two could hear her: "He is such a fool!"&nbsp;
Then he conducted Mrs Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and
afterwards himself drove Mrs Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre;
in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green
cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for
his marriage.&nbsp; "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old
man.

<p>"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.

<p>"So best;&mdash;so best.&nbsp; And this is Mrs Pipkin?"

<p>"Yes, Mr Ruggles; that's my name."

<p>"I've heard your name.&nbsp; I've heard your name, and I don't
know as I ever want to hear it again.&nbsp; But they say as you've
been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that."

<p>"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy.&nbsp; The
old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up
into the bedroom which they were both to occupy.&nbsp; "Now, Mrs
Pipkin, just you say," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any
girl to live with an old man like that?"

<p>"But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young
man instead when you pleased."

<p>"You mean John Crumb."

<p>"Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby."

<p>"There ain't much to choose between 'em.&nbsp; What one says is
all spite; and the other man says nothing at all."

<p>"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive
voice, "I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart
is better nor a fickle tongue,&mdash;specially with vittels certain."

<p>On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily,
and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy
man.&nbsp; He himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and
Mrs Pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired
charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor
did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before
his marriage.&nbsp; He smiled and nodded at every one, now and then
pointing back with his whip to Ruby when he met any of his
specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "see,
I've got her at last in spite of all difficulties."&nbsp; Poor
Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of
the cart had it been possible.&nbsp; But now she was altogether in
the man's hands and no escape was within her reach.&nbsp; "What's
the odds?" said Mrs Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room
at the Inn just before they entered the church.&nbsp; "Drat
it,&mdash;you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you.&nbsp;
Ain't he fond o' you?&nbsp; Ain't he got a house of his own?&nbsp;
Ain't he well to do all round?&nbsp; Manners!&nbsp; What's
manners?&nbsp; I don't see nothing amiss in his manners.&nbsp; He
means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners."

<p>Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely
quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet,
who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in
his button-hole.&nbsp; She certainly had no right on this occasion
to complain of her husband's silence.&nbsp; Whereas she could
hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough
for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his
assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole
building.&nbsp; "I, John,&mdash;take thee Ruby,&mdash;to my wedded wife,&mdash;to
'ave and to 'old,&mdash;from this day forrard,&mdash;for better nor
worser,&mdash;for richer nor poorer"; and so on to the end.&nbsp; And
when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby,
he was very emphatic indeed.&nbsp; Since the day had been fixed he
had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart,
and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before
him.&nbsp; He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked
to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it
been possible.

<p>And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the
way up the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs Hurtle on
one arm and Mrs Pipkin on the other.&nbsp; He had been told that he
ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that
he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his
opportunities of being civil to Mrs Hurtle and Mrs Pipkin would be
rare.&nbsp; Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor
Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet
himself.&nbsp; Ruby, I think, had forgotten the order which she had
given in reference to the baker.&nbsp; When desiring that she might
see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her pride;&mdash;but now
she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her
position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how
to behave himself.&nbsp; "Mrs Crumb, you have my best wishes for
your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet in a whisper.

<p>"It's very good of you to say so, Mr Mixet."

<p>"He's a good 'un; is he."

<p>"Oh, I dare say."

<p>"You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of
him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with
him,&mdash;all's one as a babby."

<p>"A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr Mixet."

<p>"And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he
will he can hold his own."&nbsp; Ruby said no more, and soon found
herself seated by her husband's side.&nbsp; It certainly was
wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much
respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour
which pervaded his countenance.

<p>After the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as John Crumb would
call it, Mr Mixet of course made a speech.&nbsp; "He had had the
pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the
honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,&mdash;he begged all
their pardons, and should have said Mrs John Crumb,&mdash;ever since she
was a child."&nbsp; "That's a downright story," said Ruby in a
whisper to Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "And he'd never known two young people
more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's
'appinesses.&nbsp; He had understood that Mars and Wenus always
lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would
excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two
'eathen gods and goddesses.&nbsp; For Miss Ruby,&mdash;Mrs Crumb he
should say,&mdash;was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and
as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em
could stand again him.&nbsp; He didn't remember just at present
whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that
before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the
Bungay birds to pick up.&nbsp; 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver
full of 'em,&mdash;and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs
Crumb."&nbsp; The speech, of which only a small sample can be given
here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen
present,&mdash;with the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have
run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been
certain that she would be brought back again.

<p>In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought
her back to all the glories of his own house on the following
day.&nbsp; His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was
beneficent.&nbsp; When she was alone with the man, knowing that he
was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to
win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him.&nbsp; "Now,
Ruby, give a fellow a buss,&mdash;as though you meant it," he said, when
the first fitting occasion presented itself.

<p>"Oh, John,&mdash;what nonsense!"

<p>"It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you.&nbsp; I'd sooner have
a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed."&nbsp;
Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she
returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind
that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="95"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCV.&nbsp; The Longestaffe Marriages</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>In another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was
a lady whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's
friends had done for Ruby.&nbsp; Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the
early days of August was in a very miserable plight.&nbsp; Her
sister's marriage with Mr George Whitstable was fixed for the first
of September, a day which in Suffolk is of all days the most
sacred; and the combined energies of the houses of Caversham and
Toodlam were being devoted to that happy event.&nbsp; Poor
Georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but its misery
was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals.&nbsp;
It was but the other day that she had looked down from a very great
height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of
Toodlam.&nbsp; And at that time, still so recent, this contempt
from her had been accepted as being almost reasonable.&nbsp; Sophia
had hardly ventured to rebel against it, and Mr Whitstable himself
had been always afraid to encounter the shafts of irony with which
his fashionable future sister-in-law attacked him.&nbsp; But all
that was now changed.&nbsp; Sophia in her pride of place had become
a tyrant, and George Whitstable, petted in the house with those
sweetmeats which are always showered on embryo bridegrooms,
absolutely gave himself airs.&nbsp; At this time Mr Longestaffe was
never at home.&nbsp; Having assured himself that there was no
longer any danger of the Brehgert alliance he had remained in
London, thinking his presence to be necessary for the winding up of
Melmotte's affairs, and leaving poor Lady Pomona to bear her
daughter's ill humour.&nbsp; The family at Caversham consisted
therefore of the three ladies, and was enlivened by daily visits
from Toodlam.&nbsp; It will be owned that in this state of things
there was very little consolation for Georgiana.

<p>It was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her
sister,&mdash;to the point of absolutely refusing to act as
bridesmaid.&nbsp; The reader may remember that there had been a
watch and chain, and that two of the ladies of the family had
expressed an opinion that these trinkets should be returned to Mr
Brehgert who had bestowed them.&nbsp; But Georgiana had not sent
them back when a week had elapsed since the receipt of Mr
Brehgert's last letter.&nbsp; The matter had perhaps escaped Lady
Pomona's memory, but Sophia was happily alive to the honour of her
family.&nbsp; "Georgey," she said one morning in their mother's
presence, "don't you think Mr Brehgert's watch ought to go back to
him without any more delay?"

<p>"What have you got to do with anybody's watch?&nbsp; The watch
wasn't given to you."

<p>"I think it ought to go back.&nbsp; When papa finds that it has
been kept I'm sure he'll be very angry."

<p>"It's no business of yours whether he's angry or not."

<p>"If it isn't sent, George will tell Dolly.&nbsp; You know what
would happen then."

<p>This was unbearable!&nbsp; That George Whitstable should
interfere in her affairs,&mdash;that he should talk about her watch and
chain.&nbsp; "I never will speak to George Whitstable again the
longest day that ever I live," she said, getting up from her chair.

<p>"My dear, don't say anything so horrible as that," exclaimed the
unhappy mother.

<p>"I do say it.&nbsp; What has George Whitstable to do with
me?&nbsp; A miserably stupid fellow!&nbsp; Because you've landed
him, you think he's to ride over the whole family."

<p>"I think Mr Brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back,"
said Sophia.

<p>"Certainly he ought," said Lady Pomona.&nbsp; "Georgiana, it
must be sent back.&nbsp; It really must,&mdash;or I shall tell your
papa."

<p>Subsequently, on the same day, Georgiana brought the watch and
chain to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of
keeping them, and explaining that she had intended to hand them
over to her papa as soon as he should have returned to
Caversham.&nbsp; Lady Pomona was now empowered to return them, and
they were absolutely confided to the hands of the odious George
Whitstable, who about this time made a journey to London in
reference to certain garments which he required.&nbsp; But
Georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with
her sister.&nbsp; She would not be bridesmaid.&nbsp; She would
never speak to George Whitstable.&nbsp; And she would shut herself
up on the day of the marriage.

<p>She did think herself to be very hardly used.&nbsp; What was
there left in the world that she could do in furtherance of her
future cause?&nbsp; And what did her father and mother expect would
become of her?&nbsp; Marriage had ever been so clearly placed
before her eyes as a condition of things to be achieved by her own
efforts, that she could not endure the idea of remaining tranquil
in her father's house and waiting till some fitting suitor might
find her out.&nbsp; She had struggled and struggled, struggling
still in vain,&mdash;till every effort of her mind, every thought of her
daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that as she grew older
from year to year, the struggle should be more intense.&nbsp; The
swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of his
skill and confident in his strength, can make his way through the
water with the full command of all his powers.&nbsp; But when he
begins to feel that the shore is receding from him, that his
strength is going, that the footing for which he pants is still far
beneath his feet,&mdash;that there is peril where before he had
contemplated no danger,&mdash;then he begins to beat the water with
strokes rapid but impotent, and to waste in anxious gaspings the
breath on which his very life must depend.&nbsp; So it was with
poor Georgey Longestaffe.&nbsp; Something must be done at once, or
it would be of no avail.&nbsp; Twelve years had been passed by her
since first she plunged into the stream,&mdash;the twelve years of her
youth,&mdash;and she was as far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if
she believed her eyes.&nbsp; She too must strike out with rapid
efforts, unless, indeed, she would abandon herself and let the
waters close over her head.&nbsp; But immersed as she was here at
Caversham, how could she strike at all?&nbsp; Even now the waters
were closing upon her.&nbsp; The sound of them was in her
ears.&nbsp; The ripple of the wave was already round her lips;
robbing her of breath.&nbsp; Ah!&mdash;might not there be some last
great convulsive effort which might dash her on shore, even if it
were upon a rock!

<p>That ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the
same as drowning she never for a moment doubted.&nbsp; It had never
occurred to her to consider with equanimity the prospect of living
as an old maid.&nbsp; It was beyond the scope of her mind to
contemplate the chances of a life in which marriage might be well
if it came, but in which unmarried tranquillity might also be well
should that be her lot.&nbsp; Nor could she understand that others
should contemplate it for her.&nbsp; No doubt the battle had been
carried on for many years so much under the auspices of her father
and mother as to justify her in thinking that their theory of life
was the same as her own.&nbsp; Lady Pomona had been very open in
her teaching, and Mr Longestaffe had always given a silent
adherence to the idea that the house in London was to be kept open
in order that husbands might be caught.&nbsp; And now when they
deserted her in her real difficulty,&mdash;when they first told her to
live at Caversham all the summer, and then sent her up to the
Melmottes, and after that forbade her marriage with Mr
Brehgert,&mdash;it seemed to her that they were unnatural parents who
gave her a stone when she wanted bread, a serpent when she asked
for a fish.&nbsp; She had no friend left.&nbsp; There was no one
living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not.&nbsp;
She took to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many
things with a grim earnestness which had not hitherto belonged to
her character.

<p>"Mamma," she said one morning when all the care of the household
was being devoted to the future comforts,&mdash;chiefly in regard to
linen,&mdash;of Mrs George Whitstable, "I wonder whether papa has any
intention at all about me."

<p>"In what sort of way, my dear?"

<p>"In any way.&nbsp; Does he mean me to live here for ever and
ever?"

<p>"I don't think he intends to have a house in town again."

<p>"And what am I to do?"

<p>"I suppose we shall stay here at Caversham."

<p>"And I'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent,&mdash;only that
the nun does it by her own consent and I don't!&nbsp; Mamma, I
won't stand it.&nbsp; I won't indeed."

<p>"I think, my dear, that that is nonsense.&nbsp; You see company
here, just as other people do in the country;&mdash;and as for not
standing it, I don't know what you mean.&nbsp; As long as you are
one of your papa's family of course you must live where he lives."

<p>"Oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!&mdash;It is
horrible&mdash;horrible!&nbsp; As if you didn't know!&nbsp; As if you
couldn't understand!&nbsp; Sometimes I almost doubt whether papa
does know, and then I think that if he did he would not be so
cruel.&nbsp; But you understand it all as well as I do
myself.&nbsp; What is to become of me?&nbsp; Is it not enough to
drive me mad to be going about here by myself, without any prospect
of anything?&nbsp; Should you have liked at my age to have felt
that you had no chance of having a house of your own to live
in?&nbsp; Why didn't you, among you, let me marry Mr
Breghert?"&nbsp; As she said this she was almost eloquent with
passion.

<p>"You know, my dear," said Lady Pomona, "that your papa wouldn't
hear of it."

<p>"I know that if you would have helped me I would have done it in
spite of papa.&nbsp; What right has he to domineer over me in that
way?&nbsp; Why shouldn't I have married the man if I chose?&nbsp; I
am old enough to know surely.&nbsp; You talk now of shutting up
girls in convents as being a thing quite impossible.&nbsp; This is
much worse.&nbsp; Papa won't do anything to help me.&nbsp; Why
shouldn't he let me do something for myself?"

<p>"You can't regret Mr Brehgert!"

<p>"Why can't I regret him?&nbsp; I do regret him.&nbsp; I'd have
him to-morrow if he came.&nbsp; Bad as it might be, it couldn't be
so bad as Caversham."

<p>"You couldn't have loved him, Georgiana."

<p>"Loved him!&nbsp; Who thinks about love nowadays?&nbsp; I don't
know any one who loves any one else.&nbsp; You won't tell me that
Sophy is going to marry that idiot because she loves him.&nbsp; Did
Julia Triplex love that man with the large fortune?&nbsp; When you
wanted Dolly to marry Marie Melmotte you never thought of his
loving her.&nbsp; I had got the better of all that kind of thing
before I was twenty."

<p>"I think a young woman should love her husband."

<p>"It makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way.&nbsp; It
does indeed.&nbsp; When one has been going on for a dozen years
trying to do something,&mdash;and I have never had any secrets from
you,&mdash;then that you should turn round upon me and talk about
love!&nbsp; Mamma, if you would help me I think I could still
manage with Mr Brehgert."&nbsp; Lady Pomona shuddered.&nbsp; "You
have not got to marry him."

<p>"It is too horrid."

<p>"Who would have to put up with it?&nbsp; Not you, or papa, or
Dolly.&nbsp; I should have a house of my own at least, and I should
know what I had to expect for the rest of my life.&nbsp; If I stay
here I shall go mad or die."

<p>"It is impossible."

<p>"If you will stand to me, mamma, I am sure it may be done.&nbsp;
I would write to him, and say that you would see him."

<p>"Georgiana, I will never see him."

<p>"Why not?"

<p>"He is a Jew!"

<p>"What abominable prejudice,&mdash;what wicked prejudice!&nbsp; As if
you didn't know that all that is changed now!&nbsp; What possible
difference can it make about a man's religion?&nbsp; Of course I
know that he is vulgar, and old, and has a lot of children.&nbsp;
But if I can put up with that, I don't think that you and papa have
a right to interfere.&nbsp; As to his religion it cannot signify."

<p>"Georgiana, you make me very unhappy.&nbsp; I am wretched to see
you so discontented.&nbsp; If I could do anything for you, I
would.&nbsp; But I will not meddle about Mr Brehgert.&nbsp; I
shouldn't dare to do so.&nbsp; I don't think you know how angry
your papa can be."

<p>"I'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me.&nbsp;
What can he do?&nbsp; I don't suppose he'll beat me.&nbsp; And I'd
rather he would than shut me up here.&nbsp; As for you, mamma, I
don't think you care for me a bit.&nbsp; Because Sophy is going to
be married to that oaf, you are become so proud of her that you
haven't half a thought for anybody else."

<p>"That's very unjust, Georgiana."

<p>"I know what's unjust,&mdash;and I know who's ill-treated.&nbsp; I
tell you fairly, mamma, that I shall write to Mr Brehgert and tell
him that I am quite ready to marry him.&nbsp; I don't know why he
should be afraid of papa.&nbsp; I don't mean to be afraid of him
any more, and you may tell him just what I say."

<p>All this made Lady Pomona very miserable.&nbsp; She did not
communicate her daughter's threat to Mr Longestaffe, but she did
discuss it with Sophia.&nbsp; Sophia was of opinion that Georgiana
did not mean it, and gave two or three reasons for thinking
so.&nbsp; In the first place had she intended it she would have
written her letter without saying a word about it to Lady
Pomona.&nbsp; And she certainly would not have declared her purpose
of writing such letter after Lady Pomona had refused her
assistance.&nbsp; And moreover,&mdash;Lady Pomona had received no former
hint of the information which was now conveyed to her,&mdash;Georgiana
was in the habit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost
every day in the park.

<p>"Mr Batherbolt!" exclaimed Lady Pomona.

<p>"She is walking with Mr Batherbolt almost every day."

<p>"But he is so very strict."

<p>"It is true, mamma."

<p>"And he's five years younger than she!&nbsp; And he's got
nothing but his curacy!&nbsp; And he's a celibate!&nbsp; I heard
the bishop laughing at him because he called himself a celibate."

<p>"It doesn't signify, mamma.&nbsp; I know she is with him
constantly.&nbsp; Wilson has seen them,&mdash;and I know it.&nbsp;
Perhaps papa could get him a living.&nbsp; Dolly has a living of
his own that came to him with his property."

<p>"Dolly would be sure to sell the presentation," said Lady
Pomona.

<p>"Perhaps the bishop would do something," said the anxious
sister, "when he found that the man wasn't a celibate.&nbsp;
Anything, mamma, would be better than the Jew."&nbsp; To this
latter proposition Lady Pomona gave a cordial assent.&nbsp; "Of
course it is a come-down to marry a curate,&mdash;but a clergyman is
always considered to be decent."

<p>The preparations for the Whitstable marriage went on without any
apparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between Mr
Batherbolt and Georgiana.&nbsp; There was no room to apprehend
anything wrong on that side.&nbsp; Mr Batherbolt was so excellent a
young man, and so exclusively given to religion, that, even should
Sophy's suspicion be correct, he might be trusted to walk about the
park with Georgiana.&nbsp; Should he at any time come forward and
ask to be allowed to make the lady his wife, there would be no
disgrace in the matter.&nbsp; He was a clergyman and a
gentleman,&mdash;and the poverty would be Georgiana's own affair.

<p>Mr Longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest
daughter's marriage, and with him came Dolly.&nbsp; Great trouble
had been taken to teach him that duty absolutely required his
presence at his sister's marriage, and he had at last consented to
be there.&nbsp; It is not generally considered a hardship by a
young man that he should have to go into a good partridge country
on the 1st of September, and Dolly was an acknowledged
sportsman.&nbsp; Nevertheless, he considered that he had made a
great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by Lady Pomona
as though he were a bright example to other sons.&nbsp; He found
the house not in a very comfortable position, for Georgiana still
persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to
Mr Whitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at
Caversham, gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money
affairs had been comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to
squabble with his father.&nbsp; It was a great thing that one of
the girls should be married, and Dolly had brought down an
enormous china dog, about five feet high, as a wedding present,
which added materially to the happiness of the meeting.&nbsp; Lady
Pomona had determined that she would tell her husband of those
walks in the park, and of other signs of growing intimacy which had
reached her ears;&mdash;but this she would postpone until after the
Whitstable marriage.

<p>But at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage,
they were all astounded by the news that Georgiana had run away
with Mr Batherbolt.&nbsp; She had been up before six.&nbsp; He had
met her at the park gate, and had driven her over to catch the
early train at Stowmarket.&nbsp; Then it appeared, too, that, by
degrees, various articles of her property had been conveyed to Mr
Batherbolt's lodgings in the adjacent village, so that Lady
Pomona's fear that Georgiana would not have a thing to wear was
needless.&nbsp; When the fact was first known it was almost felt,
in the consternation of the moment, that the Whitstable marriage
must be postponed.&nbsp; But Sophia had a word to say to her mother
on that head, and she said it.&nbsp; The marriage was not
postponed.&nbsp; At first Dolly talked of going after his younger
sister, and the father did dispatch various telegrams.&nbsp; But
the fugitives could not be brought back, and with some little
delay,&mdash;which made the marriage perhaps uncanonical but not
illegal,&mdash;Mr George Whitstable was made a happy man.

<p>It need only he added that in about a month's time Georgiana
returned to Caversham as Mrs Batherbolt, and that she resided there
with her husband in much connubial bliss for the next six
months.&nbsp; At the end of that time they removed to a small
living, for the purchase of which Mr Longestaffe had managed to
raise the necessary money.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="96"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCVI.&nbsp; Where "The Wild Asses Quench Their Thirst"</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>We must now go back a little in our story,&mdash;about three
weeks,&mdash;in order that the reader may be told how affairs were
progressing at the Beargarden.&nbsp; That establishment had
received a terrible blow in the defection of Herr Vossner.&nbsp; It
was not only that he had robbed the club, and robbed every member
of the club who had ventured to have personal dealings with
him.&nbsp; Although a bad feeling in regard to him was no doubt
engendered in the minds of those who had suffered deeply, it was
not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom over the
club.&nbsp; The sorrow was in this,&mdash;that with Herr Vossner all
their comforts had gone.&nbsp; Of course Herr Vossner had been a
thief.&nbsp; That no doubt had been known to them from the
beginning.&nbsp; A man does not consent to be called out of bed at
all hours in the morning to arrange the gambling accounts of young
gentlemen without being a thief.&nbsp; No one concerned with Herr
Vossner had supposed him to be an honest man.&nbsp; But then as a
thief he had been so comfortable that his absence was regretted
with a tenderness almost amounting to love even by those who had
suffered most severely from his rapacity.&nbsp; Dolly Longestaffe
had been robbed more outrageously than any other member of the
club, and yet Dolly Longestaffe had said since the departure of the
purveyor that London was not worth living in now that Herr Vossner
was gone.&nbsp; In a week the Beargarden collapsed,&mdash;as Germany
would collapse for a period if Herr Vossner's great compatriot were
suddenly to remove himself from the scene; but as Germany would
strive to live even without Bismarck, so did the club make its new
efforts.&nbsp; But here the parallel must cease.&nbsp; Germany no
doubt would at last succeed, but the Beargarden had received a blow
from which it seemed that there was no recovery.&nbsp; At first it
was proposed that three men should be appointed as
trustees,&mdash;trustees for paying Vossner's debts, trustees for
borrowing more money, trustees for the satisfaction of the landlord
who was beginning to be anxious as to his future rent.&nbsp; At a
certain very triumphant general meeting of the club it was
determined that such a plan should be arranged, and the members
assembled were unanimous.&nbsp; It was at first thought that there
might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship.&nbsp; The club
was so popular and the authority conveyed by the position would be
so great, that A, B, and C might feel aggrieved at seeing so much
power conferred on D, E, and F.&nbsp; When at the meeting above
mentioned one or two names were suggested, the final choice was
postponed, as a matter of detail to be arranged privately, rather
from this consideration than with any idea that there might be a
difficulty in finding adequate persons.&nbsp; But even the leading
members of the Beargarden hesitated when the proposition was
submitted to them with all its honours and all its
responsibilities.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale declared from the beginning
that he would have nothing to do with it,&mdash;pleading his poverty
openly.&nbsp; Beauchamp Beauclerk was of opinion that he himself
did not frequent the club often enough.&nbsp; Mr Lupton professed
his inability as a man of business.&nbsp; Lord Grasslough pleaded
his father.&nbsp; The club from the first had been sure of Dolly
Longestaffe's services;&mdash;for were not Dolly's pecuniary affairs now
in process of satisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all
men that his courage never failed him in regard to money?&nbsp; But
even he declined.&nbsp; "I have spoken to Squercum," he said to the
Committee, "and Squercum won't hear of it.&nbsp; Squercum has made
inquiries and he thinks the club very shaky."&nbsp; When one of the
Committee made a remark as to Mr Squercum which was not
complimentary,&mdash;insinuated indeed that Squercum without injustice
might be consigned to the infernal deities,&mdash;Dolly took the matter
up warmly.&nbsp; "That's all very well for you, Grasslough; but if
you knew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight
without preaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise
Squercum.&nbsp; I've tried to go alone and I find that does not
answer.&nbsp; Squercum's my coach, and I mean to stick pretty close
to him."&nbsp; Then it came to pass that the triumphant project as
to the trustees fell to the ground, although Squercum himself
advised that the difficulty might be lessened if three gentlemen
could be selected who lived well before the world and yet had
nothing to lose.&nbsp; Whereupon Dolly suggested Miles
Grendall.&nbsp; But the committee shook its heads, not thinking it
possible that the club could be re-established on a basis of three
Miles Grendalls.

<p>Then dreadful rumours were heard.&nbsp; The Beargarden must
surely be abandoned.&nbsp; "It is such a pity," said Nidderdale,
"because there never has been anything like it."

<p>"Smoke all over the house!" said Dolly.

<p>"No horrid nonsense about closing," said Grasslough, "and no
infernal old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for
nothing."

<p>"Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be
kept!&nbsp; That's what I liked," said Nidderdale.

<p>"It's an old story," said Mr Lupton, "that if you put a man into
Paradise he'll make it too hot to hold him.&nbsp; That's what
you've done here."

<p>"What we ought to do," said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense
of his own good fortune in regard to Squercum, "is to get some
fellow like Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to
steal above his regular pay.&nbsp; Then we could subscribe that
among us.&nbsp; I really think that might be done.&nbsp; Squercum
would find a fellow, no doubt."&nbsp; But Mr Lupton was of opinion
that the new Vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted,
the extent of his own cupidity.

<p>One day, before the Whitstable marriage, when it was understood
that the club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless
some new heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its
salvation, Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the
hall and the steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to
dinner, when Sir Felix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner
and, in a creeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall
door.&nbsp; He had nearly recovered from his wounds, though be
still wore a bit of court plaster on his upper lip, and had not yet
learned to look or to speak as though he had not had two of his
front teeth knocked out.&nbsp; He had heard little or nothing of
what had been done at the Beargarden since Vossner's defection, It
was now a month since he had been seen at the club.&nbsp; His
thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but
latterly his existence had been almost forgotten.&nbsp; Now, with
difficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so
completely had he been cowed by the latter circumstances of his
life; but he had determined that he would pluck up his courage, and
talk to his old associates as though no evil thing had befallen
him.&nbsp; He had still money enough to pay for his dinner and to
begin a small rubber of whist.&nbsp; If fortune should go against
him he might glide into I.O.U.'s,&mdash;as others had done before, so
much to his cost.&nbsp; "By George, here's Carbury!" said
Dolly.&nbsp; Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, and walked
upstairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to have their hands
shaken by the stranger.

<p>"Thought you were out of town," said Nidderdale, "Haven't seen
you for the last ever so long."

<p>"I have been out of town," said Felix,&mdash;lying; "down in
Suffolk.&nbsp; But I'm back now.&nbsp; How are things going on
here?"

<p>"They're not going at all;&mdash;they're gone," said Dolly.&nbsp;
"Everything is smashed," said Nidderdale.

<p>"We shall all have to pay, I don't know how much."

<p>"Wasn't Vossner ever caught?" asked the baronet.

<p>"Caught!" ejaculated Dolly.&nbsp; "No;&mdash;but he has caught
us.&nbsp; I don't know that there has ever been much idea of
catching Vossner.&nbsp; We close altogether next Monday, and the
furniture is to be gone to law for.&nbsp; Flatfleece says it
belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale.&nbsp; Indeed,
everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece.&nbsp;
He's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the
cellar."

<p>"That don't matter," said Nidderdale, "as Vossner took care that
there shouldn't be any wine."

<p>"He's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use
what we have as a favour."

<p>"I suppose one can get a dinner here?"

<p>"Yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow,"

<p>"Isn't there any playing?" asked Felix with dismay.

<p>"I haven't seen a card this fortnight," said Dolly.&nbsp; "There
hasn't been anybody to play.&nbsp; Everything has gone to the
dogs.&nbsp; There has been the affair of Melmotte, you
know;&mdash;though, I suppose, you do know all about that."

<p>"Of course I know he poisoned himself."

<p>"Of course that had effect," said Dolly, continuing his
history.&nbsp; "Though why fellows shouldn't play cards because
another fellow like that takes poison, I can't understand.&nbsp;
Last year the only day I managed to get down in February, the
hounds didn't come because some old cove had died.&nbsp; What harm
could our hunting have done him?&nbsp; I call it rot."

<p>"Melmotte's death was rather awful," said Nidderdale.

<p>"Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one.&nbsp; And now
they say the girl is going to be married to Fisker.&nbsp; I don't
know how you and Nidderdale like that.&nbsp; I never went in for
her myself.&nbsp; Squercum never seemed to see it."

<p>"Poor dear!" said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "She's welcome for me, and I
dare say she couldn't do better with herself.&nbsp; I was very fond
of her;&mdash;I'll be shot if I wasn't."

<p>"And Carbury too, I suppose," said Dolly.

<p>"No; I wasn't.&nbsp; If I'd really been fond of her I suppose it
would have come off.&nbsp; I should have had her safe enough to
America, if I'd cared about it."&nbsp; This was Sir Felix's view of
the matter.

<p>"Come into the smoking-room, Dolly," said Nidderdale.&nbsp; "I
can stand most things, and I try to stand everything; but, by
George, that fellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him.&nbsp;
You and I are bad enough,&mdash;but I don't think we're so heartless as
Carbury."

<p>"I don't think I'm heartless at all," said Dolly.&nbsp; "I'm
good-natured to everybody that is good-natured to me,&mdash;and to a
great many people who ain't.&nbsp; I'm going all the way down to
Caversham next week to see my sister married, though I hate the
place and hate marriages, and if I was to be hung for it I couldn't
say a word to the fellow who is going to be my
brother-in-law.&nbsp; But I do agree about Carbury.&nbsp; It's very
hard to be good-natured to him."

<p>But, in the teeth of these adverse opinions Sir Felix managed to
get his dinner-table close to theirs and to tell them at dinner
something of his future prospects.&nbsp; He was going to travel and
see the world.&nbsp; He had, according to his own account,
completely run through London life and found that it was all
barren.

<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<font size="-1">
    "In life I've rung all changes through,<br>
    &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Run every pleasure down,<br>
    'Midst each excess of folly too,<br>
    &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And lived with half the town."<br>
</font>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>

<p>Sir Felix did not exactly quote the old song, probably having
never heard the words.&nbsp; But that was the burden of his present
story.&nbsp; It was his determination to seek new scenes, and in
search of them to travel over the greater part of the known world.

<p>"How jolly for you!" said Dolly.

<p>"It will be a change, you know."

<p>"No end of a change.&nbsp; Is any one going with you?"

<p>"Well;&mdash;yes.&nbsp; I've got a travelling companion;&mdash;a very
pleasant fellow, who knows a lot, and will be able to coach me up
in things.&nbsp; There's a deal to be learned by going abroad, you
know."

<p>"A sort of a tutor," said Nidderdale.

<p>"A parson, I suppose," said Dolly.

<p>"Well;&mdash;he is a clergyman.&nbsp; Who told you?"

<p>"It's only my inventive genius.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;yes; I should say
that would be nice,&mdash;travelling about Europe with a
clergyman.&nbsp; I shouldn't get enough advantage out of it to make
it pay, but I fancy it will just suit you."

<p>"It's an expensive sort of thing;&mdash;isn't it?" asked Nidderdale.

<p>"Well;&mdash;it does cost something.&nbsp; But I've got so sick of
this kind of life;&mdash;and then that railway Board coming to an end,
and the club smashing up, and&mdash;"

<p>"Marie Melmotte marrying Fisker," suggested Dolly.

<p>"That too, if you will.&nbsp; But I want a change, and a change
I mean to have.&nbsp; I've seen this side of things, and now I'll
have a look at the other."

<p>"Didn't you have a row in the street with some one the other
day?"&nbsp; This question was asked very abruptly by Lord
Grasslough, who, though he was sitting near them, had not yet
joined in the conversation, and who had not before addressed a word
to Sir Felix.&nbsp; "We heard something about it, but we never got
the right story."&nbsp; Nidderdale glanced across the table at
Dolly, and Dolly whistled.&nbsp; Grasslough looked at the man he
addressed as one does look when one expects an answer.&nbsp; Mr
Lupton, with whom Grasslough was dining, also sat expectant.&nbsp;
Dolly and Nidderdale were both silent.

<p>It was the fear of this that had kept Sir Felix away from the
club.&nbsp; Grasslough, as he had told himself, was just the fellow
to ask such a question,&mdash;ill-natured, insolent, and
obtrusive.&nbsp; But the question demanded an answer of some
kind.&nbsp; "Yes," said he; "a fellow attacked me in the street,
coming behind me when I had a girl with me.&nbsp; He didn't get
much the best of it though."

<p>"Oh;&mdash;didn't he?" said Grasslough.&nbsp; "I think, upon the
whole, you know, you're right about going abroad."

<p>"What business is it of yours?" asked the baronet.

<p>"Well;&mdash;as the club is being broken up, I don't know that it is
very much the business of any of us."

<p>"I was speaking to my friends, Lord Nidderdale and Mr
Longestaffe, and not to you."

<p>"I quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction," said Lord
Grasslough, "and am sorry for Lord Nidderdale and Mr Longestaffe."

<p>"What do you mean by that?" said Sir Felix, rising from his
chair.&nbsp; His present opponent was not horrible to him as had
been John Crumb, as men in clubs do not now often knock each
others' heads or draw swords one upon another.

<p>"Don't let's have a quarrel here," said Mr Lupton.&nbsp; "I
shall leave the room if you do."

<p>"If we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness,"
said Nidderdale.

<p>"Of course, if there is to be a fight, I'm good to go out with
anybody," said Dolly.&nbsp; "When there's any beastly thing to be
done, I've always got to do it.&nbsp; But don't you think that kind
of thing is a little slow?"

<p>"Who began it?" said Sir Felix, sitting down again.&nbsp;
Whereupon Lord Grasslough, who had finished his dinner, walked out
of the room.&nbsp; "That fellow is always wanting to quarrel."

<p>"There's one comfort, you know," said Dolly.&nbsp; "It wants two
men to make a quarrel."

<p>"Yes; it does," said Sir Felix, taking this as a friendly
observation; "and I'm not going to be fool enough to be one of
them."

<p>"Oh, yes, I meant it fast enough," said Grasslough afterwards up
in the card-room.&nbsp; The other men who had been together had
quickly followed him, leaving Sir Felix alone, and they had
collected themselves there not with the hope of play, but thinking
that they would be less interrupted than in the smoking-room.&nbsp;
"I don't suppose we shall ever any of us be here again, and as he
did come in I thought I would tell him my mind."

<p>"What's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?" said
Dolly.&nbsp; "Of course he's a bad fellow.&nbsp; Most fellows are
bad fellows in one way or another."

<p>"But he's bad all round," said the bitter enemy.

<p>"And so this is to be the end of the Beargarden," said Lord
Nidderdale with a peculiar melancholy.&nbsp; "Dear old place!&nbsp;
I always felt it was too good to last.&nbsp; I fancy it doesn't do
to make things too easy;&mdash;one has to pay so uncommon dear for
them.&nbsp; And then, you know, when you've got things easy, then
they get rowdy;&mdash;and, by George, before you know where you are, you
find yourself among a lot of blackguards.&nbsp; If one wants to
keep one's self straight, one has to work hard at it, one way or
the other.&nbsp; I suppose it all comes from the fall of Adam."

<p>"If Solomon, Solon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were rolled
into one, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom," said Mr
Lupton.

<p>"Live and learn," continued the young lord.&nbsp; "I don't think
anybody has liked the Beargarden so much as I have, but I shall
never try this kind of thing again.&nbsp; I shall begin reading
blue books to-morrow, and shall dine at the Carlton.&nbsp; Next
session I shan't miss a day in the House, and I'll bet anybody a
flyer that I make a speech before Easter.&nbsp; I shall take to
claret at 20s. a dozen, and shall go about London on the top of an
omnibus."

<p>"How about getting married?" asked Dolly.

<p>"Oh;&mdash;that must be as it comes.&nbsp; That's the governor's
affair.&nbsp; None of you fellows will believe me, but, upon my
word, I liked that girl; and I'd've stuck to her at last,&mdash;only
there are some things a fellow can't do.&nbsp; He was such a
thundering scoundrel!"

<p>After a while Sir Felix followed them upstairs, and entered the
room as though nothing unpleasant had happened below.&nbsp; "We can
make up a rubber can't we?" said he.

<p>"I should say not," said Nidderdale.

<p>"I shall not play," said Mr Lupton.

<p>"There isn't a pack of cards in the house," said Dolly.&nbsp;
Lord Grasslough didn't condescend to say a word.&nbsp; Sir Felix
sat down with his cigar in his mouth, and the others continued to
smoke in silence.

<p>"I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall," asked Sir
Felix.&nbsp; But no one made any answer, and they smoked on in
silence.&nbsp; "He hasn't paid me a shilling yet of the money he
owes me."&nbsp; Still there was not a word.&nbsp; "And I don't
suppose he ever will."&nbsp; There was another pause.&nbsp; "He is
the biggest scoundrel I ever met," said Sir Felix.

<p>"I know one as big," said Lord Grasslough,&mdash;"or, at any rate,
as little."

<p>There was another pause of a minute, and then Sir Felix left the
room muttering something as to the stupidity of having no
cards;&mdash;and so brought to an end his connection with his associates
of the Beargarden.&nbsp; From that time forth he was never more
seen by them,&mdash;or, if seen, was never known.

<p>The other men remained there till well on into the night,
although there was not the excitement of any special amusement to
attract them.&nbsp; It was felt by them all that this was the end
of the Beargarden, and, with a melancholy seriousness befitting the
occasion, they whispered sad things in low voices, consoling
themselves simply with tobacco.&nbsp; "I never felt so much like
crying in my life," said Dolly, as he asked for a glass of
brandy-and-water at about midnight.&nbsp; "Good-night, old fellows;
good-bye.&nbsp; I'm going down to Caversham, and I shouldn't wonder
if I didn't drown myself."

<p>How Mr Flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture,
and threatened everybody, and at last singled out poor Dolly
Longestaffe as his special victim; and how Dolly Longestaffe, by
the aid of Mr Squercum, utterly confounded Mr Flatfleece, and
brought that ingenious but unfortunate man, with his wife and small
family, to absolute ruin, the reader will hardly expect to have
told to him in detail in this chronicle.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="97"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCVII.&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle's Fate</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>Mrs Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs Pipkin and
John Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to
Bungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any
love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to
witness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness
towards Paul Montague.&nbsp; She not only longed to see him once
again, but she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the
land in which he was living.&nbsp; There was no hope for her.&nbsp;
She was sure of that.&nbsp; She had consented to relinquish
him.&nbsp; She had condoned his treachery to her,&mdash;and for his sake
had even been kind to the rival who had taken her place.&nbsp; But
still she lingered near him.&nbsp; And then, though, in all her
very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met,
she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a
return to her own country.&nbsp; In her heart of hearts she liked
the somewhat stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it
with the rough tempests of her past days.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin, she
thought, was less intellectual than any American woman she had ever
known; and she was quite sure that no human being so heavy, so
slow, and so incapable of two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had
ever been produced in the United States;&mdash;but, nevertheless, she
liked Mrs Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb.&nbsp; How different
would her life have been could she have met a man who would have
been as true to her as John Crumb was to his Ruby!

<p>She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised
herself for loving him.&nbsp; How weak he was;&mdash;how inefficient;
how unable to seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and
swaddled by scruples and prejudices;&mdash;how unlike her own countrymen
in quickness of apprehension and readiness of action!&nbsp; But yet
she loved him for his very faults, telling herself that there was
something sweeter in his English manners than in all the smart
intelligence of her own land.&nbsp; The man had been false to
her,&mdash;false as hell; had sworn to her and had broken his oath; had
ruined her whole life; had made everything blank before her by his
treachery!&nbsp; But then she also had not been quite true with
him.&nbsp; She had not at first meant to deceive;&mdash;nor had
he.&nbsp; They had played a game against each other; and he, with
all the inferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had
won,&mdash;because he was a man.&nbsp; She had much time for thinking,
and she thought much about these things.&nbsp; He could change his
love as often as he pleased, and be as good a lover at the end as
ever;&mdash;whereas she was ruined by his defection.&nbsp; He could look
about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she
could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been
rifled.&nbsp; She was not quite sure that such mourning would not
be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs Pipkin's solitary
lodgings at Islington.

<p>"So he was Mr Montague's partner,&mdash;was he now?" asked Mrs Pipkin
a day or two after their return from the Crumb marriage.&nbsp; For
Mr Fisker had called on Mrs Hurtle, and Mrs Hurtle had told Mrs
Pipkin so much.&nbsp; "To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr
Montague."&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had
lost one partner she might be anxious to secure the other;&mdash;perhaps
felt, too, that it might be well to praise an American at the
expense of an Englishman.

<p>"There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs Pipkin."

<p>"And that's true, too, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"Mr Montague is a gentleman."

<p>"I always did say that of him, Mrs Hurtle."

<p>"And Mr Fisker is&mdash;an American citizen."&nbsp; Mrs Hurtle when
she said this was very far gone in tenderness.

<p>"Indeed now!" said Mrs Pipkin, who did not in the least
understand the meaning of her friend's last remark.

<p>"Mr Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I
had not heard before, and has offered to take me back with
him."&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes.&nbsp;
"I must go some day, you knew."

<p>"I suppose you must.&nbsp; I couldn't hope as you'd stay here
always.&nbsp; I wish I could.&nbsp; I never shall forget the
comfort it's been.&nbsp; There hasn't been a week without
everything settled; and most ladylike,&mdash;most ladylike!&nbsp; You
seem to me, Mrs Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your
pocket."&nbsp; All this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to
speak the absolute truth.

<p>"Mr Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine, but I hear
that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might
as well join the party.&nbsp; It will be less dull for me, and I
shall prefer company just at present for many reasons.&nbsp; We
shall start on the first of September."&nbsp; As this was said
about the middle of August there was still some remnant of comfort
for poor Mrs Pipkin.&nbsp; A fortnight gained was something; and as
Mr Fisker had come to England on business, and as business is
always uncertain, there might possibly be further delay.&nbsp; Then
Mrs Hurtle made a further communication to Mrs Pipkin, which,
though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on the door,
was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs Hurtle had desired to
say.&nbsp; "By-the-bye, Mrs Pipkin I expect Mr Montague to call
to-morrow at eleven.&nbsp; Just show him up when he comes."&nbsp;
She had feared that unless some such instructions were given, there
might be a little scene at the door when the gentleman came.

<p>"Mr Montague;&mdash;oh!&nbsp; Of course, Mrs Hurtle,&mdash;of
course.&nbsp; I'll see to it myself."&nbsp; Then Mrs Pipkin went
away abashed,&mdash;feeling that she had made a great mistake in
preferring any other man to Mr Montague, if, after all, recent
difficulties were to be adjusted.

<p>On the following morning Mrs Hurtle dressed herself with almost
more than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than
her usual care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at
her desk, nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the
next hour as though she expected no special visitor.&nbsp; Of
course she did not write a word of the task which she had
prescribed to herself.&nbsp; Of course she was disturbed in her
mind, though she had dictated to herself absolute quiescence.

<p>She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see
him.&nbsp; She had forgiven him, and what more was there to be
said?&nbsp; She had seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved
of her.&nbsp; Her curiosity had been satisfied, and her love of
revenge had been sacrificed.&nbsp; She had no plan arranged as to
what she would now say to him, nor did she at this moment attempt
to make a plan.&nbsp; She could tell him that she was about to
return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not know that she
had anything else to say.&nbsp; Then came the knock at the
door.&nbsp; Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great
effort to be tranquil.&nbsp; She heard the steps on the stairs, and
then the door was opened and Mr Montague was announced by Mrs
Pipkin herself.&nbsp; Mrs Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a
feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not once look in through
the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at the
keyhole.&nbsp; "I thought you would come and see me once again
before I went," said Mrs Hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but
putting out her hand to greet him.&nbsp; "Sit there opposite, so
that we can look at one another.&nbsp; I hope it has not been a
trouble to you."

<p>"Of course I came when you left word for me to do so."

<p>"I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your
own."

<p>"I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me.&nbsp; You
know that."

<p>"I know nothing of the kind;&mdash;but as you are here we will not
quarrel as to your motives.&nbsp; Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as
yet?&nbsp; Has she forgiven your sins?"

<p>"We are friends,&mdash;if you mean that."

<p>"Of course you are friends.&nbsp; She only wanted to have
somebody to tell her that somebody had maligned you.&nbsp; It
mattered not much who it was.&nbsp; She was ready to believe any
one who would say a good word for you.&nbsp; Perhaps I wasn't just
the person to do it, but I believe even I was sufficient to serve
the turn."

<p>"Did you say a good word for me?"

<p>"Well; no;" replied Mrs Hurtle.&nbsp; "I will not boast that I
did.&nbsp; I do not want to tell you fibs at our last
meeting.&nbsp; I said nothing good of you.&nbsp; What could I say
of good?&nbsp; But I told her what was quite as serviceable to you
as though I had sung your virtues by the hour without
ceasing.&nbsp; I explained to her how very badly you had behaved to
me.&nbsp; I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you
had thrown me to the winds."

<p>"It was not so, my friend."

<p>"What did that matter?&nbsp; One does not scruple a lie for a
friend, you know!&nbsp; I could not go into all the little details
of your perfidies.&nbsp; I could not make her understand during one
short and rather agonizing interview how you had allowed yourself
to be talked out of your love for me by English propriety even
before you had seen her beautiful eyes.&nbsp; There was no reason
why I should tell her all my disgrace,&mdash;anxious as I was to be of
service.&nbsp; Besides, as I put it, she was sure to be better
pleased.&nbsp; But I did tell her how unwillingly you had spared me
an hour of your company;&mdash;what a trouble I had been to you;&mdash;how
you would have shirked me if you could!"

<p>"Winifred, that is untrue."

<p>"That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime.&nbsp;
Mr Roger Carbury, who I own is poison to me&mdash;"

<p>"You do not know him."

<p>"Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir.&nbsp;
I say that he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her
mind with the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar
wickedness of our having lived for two nights under the same roof,
with the awful fact that we had travelled together in the same
carriage, till that had become the one stumbling-block on your path
to happiness."

<p>"He never said a word to her of our being there."

<p>"Who did then?&nbsp; But what matters?&nbsp; She knew it;&mdash;and,
as the only means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her
how cruel and how heartless you had been to me.&nbsp; I did explain
how the return of friendship which you had begun to show me, had
been frozen, harder than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr
Carbury on the sands.&nbsp; Perhaps I went a little farther and
hinted that the meeting had been arranged as affording you the
easiest means of escape from me."

<p>"You do not believe that."

<p>"You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your
conduct had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes.&nbsp; Do I
not deserve some thanks for what I did?&nbsp; Surely you would not
have had me tell her that your conduct to me had been that of a
loyal, loving gentleman.&nbsp; I confessed to her my utter
despair;&mdash;I abased myself in the dust, as a woman is abased who has
been treacherously ill-used, and has failed to avenge
herself.&nbsp; I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate
and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented.&nbsp; I told
her on your behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your
chariot wheels.&nbsp; And now you have not a word of thanks to give
me!"

<p>"Every word you say is a dagger."

<p>"You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as
I make.&nbsp; Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my
crushed bones?&nbsp; Daggers, indeed!&nbsp; Do you not suppose that
in thinking of you I have often thought of daggers?&nbsp; Why have
I not thrust one into your heart, so that I might rescue you from
the arms of this puny, spiritless English girl?"&nbsp; All this
time she was still seated, looking at him, leaning forward towards
him with her hands upon her brow.&nbsp; "But, Paul, I spit out my
words to you, like any common woman, not because they will hurt
you, but because I know I may take that comfort, such as it is,
without hurting you.&nbsp; You are uneasy for a moment while you
are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking that you cannot
answer me.&nbsp; But you will go from me to her, and then will you
not be happy?&nbsp; When you are sitting with your arm round her
waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of
my words interfere with your joy then?&nbsp; Ask yourself whether
the prick will last longer than the moment.&nbsp; But where am I to
go for happiness and joy?&nbsp; Can you understand what it is to
have to live only on retrospects?"

<p>"I wish I could say a word to comfort you."

<p>"You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all
that you have said since I have been in England.&nbsp; I never
expect comfort again.&nbsp; But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the
end.&nbsp; I will tell you all that I know of my concerns, even
though my doing so should justify your treatment of me.&nbsp; He is
not dead."

<p>"You mean Mr Hurtle."

<p>"Whom else should I mean?&nbsp; And he himself says that the
divorce which was declared between us was no divorce.&nbsp; Mr
Fisker came here to me with tidings.&nbsp; Though he is not a man
whom I specially love,&mdash;though I know that he has been my enemy
with you,&mdash;I shall return with him to San Francisco."

<p>"I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and
Melmotte's daughter."

<p>"So I understand.&nbsp; They are adventurers,&mdash;as I am, and I do
not see why we should not suit each other."

<p>"They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte."

<p>"Why should I object to that?&nbsp; I shall not be jealous of Mr
Fisker's attentions to the young lady.&nbsp; But it will suit me to
have some one to whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back
in California.&nbsp; I may have a job of work to do there which
will require the backing of some friends.&nbsp; I shall be
hand-and-glove with these people before I have travelled half
across the ocean with them."

<p>"I hope they will be kind to you," said Paul.

<p>"No;&mdash;but I will be kind to them.&nbsp; I have conquered others
by being kind, but I have never had much kindness myself.&nbsp; Did
I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you?&nbsp;
Ah, how kind I was to that poor wretch, till he lost himself in
drink!&nbsp; And then, Paul, I used to think of better people,
perhaps of softer people, of things that should be clean and sweet
and gentle,&mdash;of things that should smell of lavender instead of
wild garlic.&nbsp; I would dream of fair, feminine women,&mdash;of women
who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die rather than
do what I did.&nbsp; And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my
dreams should come true.&nbsp; I ought to have known that it could
not be so.&nbsp; I did not dare quite to tell you all the
truth.&nbsp; I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come
upon me.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;I suppose you had better say good-bye to
me.&nbsp; What is the good of putting it off?"&nbsp; Then she rose
from her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging
listlessly by her side.

<p>"God bless you, Winifred!" he said, putting out his hand to her.

<p>"But he won't.&nbsp; Why should he,&mdash;if we are right in
supposing that they who do good will be blessed for their good, and
those who do evil cursed for their evil?&nbsp; I cannot do
good.&nbsp; I cannot bring myself now not to wish that you would
return to me.&nbsp; If you would come I should care nothing for the
misery of that girl,&mdash;nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery
I should certainly bring upon you.&nbsp; Look here;&mdash;will you have
this back?"&nbsp; As she asked this she took from out her bosom a
small miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in New
York, and held it towards him.

<p>"If you wish it I will,&mdash;of course," he said.

<p>"I would not part with it for all the gold in California.&nbsp;
Nothing on earth shall ever part me from it.&nbsp; Should I ever
marry another man,&mdash;as I may do,&mdash;he must take me and this
together.&nbsp; While I live it shall be next my heart.&nbsp; As
you know, I have little respect for the proprieties of life.&nbsp;
I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man I love
because he becomes the husband of another woman.&nbsp; Having once
said that I love you I shall not contradict myself because you have
deserted me.&nbsp; Paul, I have loved you, and do love you,&mdash;oh,
with my very heart of hearts."&nbsp; So speaking she threw herself
into his arms and covered his face with kisses.&nbsp; "For one
moment you shall not banish me.&nbsp; For one short minute I will
be here.&nbsp; Oh, Paul, my love;&mdash;my love!"

<p>All this to him was simply agony,&mdash;though as she had truly said
it was an agony he would soon forget.&nbsp; But to be told by a
woman of her love,&mdash;without being able even to promise love in
return,&mdash;to be so told while you are in the very act of
acknowledging your love for another woman,&mdash;carries with it but
little of the joy of triumph.&nbsp; He did not want to see her
raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be his fate;
but he would have preferred the continuance of moderate resentment
to this flood of tenderness.&nbsp; Of course he stood with his arm
round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he did
it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill they
were.&nbsp; "There," she said, smiling through her bitter
tears,&mdash;"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall
ever be laid upon you again.&nbsp; If I have annoyed you, at this
our last meeting, you must forgive me."

<p>"No;&mdash;but you cut me to the heart."

<p>"That we can hardly help;&mdash;can we?&nbsp; When two persons have
made fools of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some
punishment.&nbsp; Yours will never be heavy after I am gone.&nbsp;
I do not start till the first of next month because that is the day
fixed by our friend, Mr Fisker, and I shall remain here till then
because my presence is convenient to Mrs Pipkin; but I need not
trouble you to come to me again.&nbsp; Indeed it will be better
that you should not.&nbsp; Good-bye."

<p>He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her,
while she smiled and gently nodded her head at him.&nbsp; Then he
essayed to pull her towards him as though he would again kiss
her.&nbsp; But she repulsed him, still smiling the while.&nbsp;
"No, sir; no; not again; never again, never,&mdash;never,&mdash;never
again."&nbsp; By that time she had recovered her hand and stood
apart from him.&nbsp; "Good-bye, Paul;&mdash;and now go."&nbsp; Then he
turned round and left the room without uttering a word.

<p>She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his
step down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the
door.&nbsp; Then hiding herself at the window with the scanty
drapery of the curtain she watched him as he went along the
street.&nbsp; When he had turned the corner she came back to the
centre of the room, stood for a moment with her arms stretched out
towards the walls, and then fell prone upon the floor.&nbsp; She
had spoken the very truth when she said that she had loved him with
all her heart.

<p>But that evening she bade Mrs Pipkin drink tea with her and was
more gracious to the poor woman than ever.&nbsp; When the
obsequious but still curious landlady asked some question about Mr
Montague, Mrs Hurtle seemed to speak very freely on the subject of
her late lover,&mdash;and to speak without any great pain.&nbsp; They
had put their heads together, she said, and had found that the
marriage would not be suitable.&nbsp; Each of them preferred their
own country, and so they had agreed to part.&nbsp; On that evening
Mrs Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant, having the
children up into her room, and giving them jam and
bread-and-butter.&nbsp; During the whole of the next fortnight she
seemed to take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs Pipkin
and her family.&nbsp; She gave toys to the children, and absolutely
bestowed upon Mrs Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room.&nbsp;
Then Mr Fisker came and took her away with him to America; and Mrs
Pipkin was left,&mdash;a desolate but grateful woman.

<p>"They do tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a
friend in the street, "and I don't pretend to know.&nbsp; But for a
lodger, I only wish Providence would send me another just like the
one I have lost.&nbsp; She had that good nature about her she liked
to see the bairns eating pudding just as if they was her own."

<p>I think Mrs Pipkin was right, and that Mrs Hurtle, with all her
faults, was a good-natured woman.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="98"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCVIII.&nbsp; Marie Melmotte's Fate</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>In the meantime Marie Melmotte was living with Madame Melmotte
in their lodgings up at Hampstead, and was taking quite a new look
out into the world.&nbsp; Fisker had become her devoted
servant,&mdash;not with that old-fashioned service which meant making
love, but with perhaps a truer devotion to her material
interests.&nbsp; He had ascertained on her behalf that she was the
undoubted owner of the money which her father had made over to her
on his first arrival in England,&mdash;and she also had made herself
mistress of that fact with equal precision.&nbsp; It would have
astonished those who had known her six months since could they now
have seen how excellent a woman of business she had become, and how
capable she was of making the fullest use of Mr Fisker's
services.&nbsp; In doing him justice it must be owned that he kept
nothing back from her of that which he learned, probably feeling
that he might best achieve success in his present project by such
honesty,&mdash;feeling also, no doubt, the girl's own strength in
discovering truth and falsehood.&nbsp; "She's her father's own
daughter," he said one day to Croll in Abchurch Lane;&mdash;for Croll,
though he had left Melmotte's employment when he found that his
name had been forged, had now returned to the service of the
daughter in some undefined position, and had been engaged to go
with her and Madame Melmotte to New York.

<p>"Ah; yees," said Croll, "but bigger.&nbsp; He vas passionate,
and did lose his 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness."&nbsp;
Whereupon Croll made an action as though he were a frog swelling
himself to the dimensions of an ox.&nbsp; "'E bursted himself, Mr
Fisker.&nbsp; 'E vas a great man; but the greater he grew he vas
always less and less vise.&nbsp; 'E ate so much that he became too
fat to see to eat his vittels."&nbsp; It was thus that Herr Croll
analysed the character of his late master.&nbsp; "But
Ma'me'selle,&mdash;ah, she is different.&nbsp; She vill never eat too
moch, but vill see to eat alvays."&nbsp; Thus too he analysed the
character of his young mistress.

<p>At first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between
Madame Melmotte and Marie.&nbsp; The reader will perhaps remember
that they were in no way connected by blood.&nbsp; Madame Melmotte
was not Marie's mother, nor, in the eye of the law, could Marie
claim Melmotte as her father.&nbsp; She was alone in the world,
absolutely without a relation, not knowing even what had been her
mother's name,&mdash;not even knowing what was her father's true name,
as in the various biographies of the great man which were, as a
matter of course, published within a fortnight of his death,
various accounts were given as to his birth, parentage, and early
history.&nbsp; The general opinion seemed to be that his father had
been a noted coiner in New York,&mdash;an Irishman of the name of
Melmody,&mdash;and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent was
argued from Melmotte's skill in forgery.&nbsp; But Marie, though
she was thus isolated, and now altogether separated from the lords
and duchesses who a few weeks since had been interested in her
career, was the undoubted owner of the money,&mdash;a fact which was
beyond the comprehension of Madame Melmotte.&nbsp; She could
understand,&mdash;and was delighted to understand,&mdash;that a very large
sum of money had been saved from the wreck, and that she might
therefore look forward to prosperous tranquillity for the rest of
her life.&nbsp; Though she never acknowledged so much to herself,
she soon learned to regard the removal of her husband as the end of
her troubles.&nbsp; But she could not comprehend why Marie should
claim all the money as her own.&nbsp; She declared herself to be
quite willing to divide the spoil,&mdash;and suggested such an
arrangement both to Marie and to Croll.&nbsp; Of Fisker she was
afraid, thinking that the iniquity of giving all the money to Marie
originated with him, in order that he might obtain it by marrying
the girl.&nbsp; Croll, who understood it all perfectly, told her
the story a dozen times,&mdash;but quite in vain.&nbsp; She made a timid
suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, and was only
deterred from doing so by Marie's ready assent to such an
arrangement.&nbsp; Marie's equally ready surrender of any right she
might have to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had
perhaps some effect in softening the elder lady's heart.&nbsp; She
thus was in possession of a treasure of her own,&mdash;though a treasure
small in comparison with that of the younger woman; and the younger
woman had promised that in the event of her marriage she would be
liberal.

<p>It was distinctly understood that they were both to go to New
York under Mr Fisker's guidance as soon as things should be
sufficiently settled to allow of their departure; and Madame
Melmotte was told, about the middle of August, that their places
had been taken for the 3rd of September.&nbsp; But nothing more was
told her.&nbsp; She did not as yet know whether Marie was to go out
free or as the affianced bride of Hamilton Fisker.&nbsp; And she
felt herself injured by being left so much in the dark.&nbsp; She
herself was inimical to Fisker, regarding him as a dark, designing
man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her husband had left
behind him,&mdash;and trusted herself entirely to Croll, who was
personally attentive to her.&nbsp; Fisker was, of course, going on
to San Francisco.&nbsp; Marie also had talked of crossing the
American continent.&nbsp; But Madame Melmotte was disposed to think
that for her, with her jewels, and such share of the money as Marie
might be induced to give her, New York would be the most fitting
residence.&nbsp; Why should she drag herself across the continent
to California?&nbsp; Herr Croll had declared his purpose of
remaining in New York.&nbsp; Then it occurred to the lady that as
Melmotte was a name which might be too well known in New York, and
which it therefore might be wise to change, Croll would do as well
as any other.&nbsp; She and Herr Croll had known each other for a
great many years, and were, she thought, of about the same
age.&nbsp; Croll had some money saved.&nbsp; She had, at any rate,
her jewels,&mdash;and Croll would probably be able to get some portion
of all that money, which ought to be hers, if his affairs were made
to be identical with her own.&nbsp; So she smiled upon Croll, and
whispered to him; and when she had given Croll two glasses of
Cura&ccedil;ao,&mdash;which comforter she kept in her own hands, as
safeguarded almost as the jewels,&mdash;then Croll understood her.

<p>But it was essential that she should know what Marie intended to
do.&nbsp; Marie was anything but communicative, and certainly was
not in any way submissive.&nbsp; "My dear," she said one day,
asking the question in French, without any preface or apology, "are
you going to be married to Mr Fisker?"

<p>"What makes you ask that?"

<p>"It is so important I should know.&nbsp; Where am I to
live?&nbsp; What am I to do?&nbsp; What money shall I have?&nbsp;
Who will be a friend to me?&nbsp; A woman ought to know.&nbsp; You
will marry Fisker if you like him.&nbsp; Why cannot you tell me?"

<p>"Because I do not know.&nbsp; When I know I will tell you.&nbsp;
If you go on asking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more."

<p>And this was true.&nbsp; She did not know.&nbsp; It certainly
was not Fisker's fault that she should still be in the dark as to
her own destiny, for he had asked her often enough, and had pressed
his suit with all his eloquence.&nbsp; But Marie had now been wooed
so often that she felt the importance of the step which was
suggested to her.&nbsp; The romance of the thing was with her a
good deal worn, and the material view of matrimony had also been
damaged in her sight.&nbsp; She had fallen in love with Sir Felix
Carbury, and had assured herself over and over again that she
worshipped the very ground on which he stood.&nbsp; But she had
taught herself this business of falling in love as a lesson, rather
than felt it.&nbsp; After her father's first attempts to marry her
to this and that suitor because of her wealth,&mdash;attempts which she
had hardly opposed amidst the consternation and glitter of the
world to which she was suddenly introduced,&mdash;she had learned from
novels that it would be right that she should be in love, and she
had chosen Sir Felix as her idol.&nbsp; The reader knows what had
been the end of that episode in her life.&nbsp; She certainly was
not now in love with Sir Felix Carbury.&nbsp; Then she had as it
were relapsed into the hands of Lord Nidderdale,&mdash;one of her early
suitors,&mdash;and had felt that as love was not to prevail, and as it
would be well that she should marry some one, he might probably be
as good as any other, and certainly better than many others.&nbsp;
She had almost learned to like Lord Nidderdale and to believe that
he liked her, when the tragedy came.&nbsp; Lord Nidderdale had been
very good-natured,&mdash;but he had deserted her at last.&nbsp; She had
never allowed herself to be angry with him for a moment.&nbsp; It
had been a matter of course that he should do so.&nbsp; Her fortune
was still large, but not so large as the sum named in the bargain
made.&nbsp; And it was moreover weighted with her father's
blood.&nbsp; From the moment of her father's death she had never
dreamed that he would marry her.&nbsp; Why should he?&nbsp; Her
thoughts in reference to Sir Felix were bitter enough;&mdash;but as
against Nidderdale they were not at all bitter.&nbsp; Should she
ever meet him again she would shake hands with him and smile,&mdash;if
not pleasantly as she thought of the things which were past,&mdash;at
any rate with good humour.&nbsp; But all this had not made her much
in love with matrimony generally.&nbsp; She had over a hundred
thousand pounds of her own, and, feeling conscious of her own power
in regard to her own money, knowing that she could do as she
pleased with her wealth, she began to look out into life seriously.

<p>What could she do with her money, and in what way would she
shape her life, should she determine to remain her own
mistress?&nbsp; Were she to refuse Fisker how should she
begin?&nbsp; He would then be banished, and her only remaining
friends, the only persons whose names she would even know in her
own country, would be her father's widow and Herr Croll.&nbsp; She
already began to see Madame Melmotte's purport in reference to
Croll, and could not reconcile herself to the idea of opening an
establishment with them on a scale commensurate with her
fortune.&nbsp; Nor could she settle in her own mind any pleasant
position for herself as a single woman, living alone in perfect
independence.&nbsp; She had opinions of women's rights,&mdash;especially
in regard to money; and she entertained also a vague notion that in
America a young woman would not need support so essentially as in
England.&nbsp; Nevertheless, the idea of a fine house for herself
in Boston, or Philadelphia,&mdash;for in that case she would have to
avoid New York as the chosen residence of Madame Melmotte,&mdash;did not
recommend itself to her.&nbsp; As to Fisker himself,&mdash;she certainly
liked him.&nbsp; He was not beautiful like Felix Carbury, nor had
he the easy good-humour of Lord Nidderdale.&nbsp; She had seen
enough of English gentlemen to know that Fisker was very unlike
them.&nbsp; But she had not seen enough of English gentlemen to
make Fisker distasteful to her.&nbsp; He told her that he had a big
house at San Francisco, and she certainly desired to live in a big
house.&nbsp; He represented himself to be a thriving man, and she
calculated that he certainly would not be here, in London,
arranging her father's affairs, were he not possessed of commercial
importance.&nbsp; She had contrived to learn that, in the United
States, a married woman has greater power over her own money than
in England, and this information acted strongly in Fisker's
favour.&nbsp; On consideration of the whole subject she was
inclined to think that she would do better in the world as Mrs
Fisker than as Marie Melmotte,&mdash;if she could see her way clearly
in the matter of her own money.

<p>"I have got excellent berths," Fisker said to her one morning at
Hampstead.&nbsp; At these interviews, which were devoted first to
business and then to love, Madame Melmotte was never allowed to be
present.

<p>"I am to be alone?"

<p>"Oh, yes.&nbsp; There is a cabin for Madame Melmotte and the
maid, and a cabin for you.&nbsp; Everything will be
comfortable.&nbsp; And there is another lady going,&mdash;Mrs
Hurtle,&mdash;whom I think you will like."

<p>"Has she a husband?"

<p>"Not going with us," said Mr Fisker evasively.

<p>"But she has one?"

<p>"Well, yes;&mdash;but you had better not mention him.&nbsp; He is not
exactly all that a husband should be."

<p>"Did she not come over here to marry some one else?"&mdash;For
Marie in the days of her sweet intimacy with Sir Felix Carbury had
heard something of Mrs Hurtle's story.

<p>"There is a story, and I dare say I shall tell you all about it
some day.&nbsp; But you may be sure I should not ask you to
associate with any one you ought not to know."

<p>"Oh,&mdash;I can take care of myself."

<p>"No doubt, Miss Melmotte,&mdash;no doubt.&nbsp; I feel that quite
strongly.&nbsp; But what I meant to observe was this,&mdash;that I
certainly should not introduce a lady whom I aspire to make my own
lady to any lady whom a lady oughtn't to know.&nbsp; I hope I make
myself understood, Miss Melmotte."

<p>"Oh, quite."

<p>"And perhaps I may go on to say that if I could go on board that
ship as your accepted lover, I could do a deal more to make you
comfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere
friend, Miss Melmotte.&nbsp; You can't doubt my heart."

<p>"I don't see why I shouldn't.&nbsp; Gentlemen's hearts are
things very much to be doubted as far as I've seen 'em.&nbsp; I
don't think many of 'em have 'em at all."

<p>"Miss Melmotte, you do not know the glorious west.&nbsp; Your
past experiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold
country in which passion is no longer allowed to sway.&nbsp; On
those golden shores which the Pacific washes man is still
true,&mdash;and woman is still tender."

<p>"Perhaps I'd better wait and see, Mr Fisker."

<p>But this was not Mr Fisker's view of the case.&nbsp; There might
be other men desirous of being true on those golden shores.&nbsp;
"And then," said he, pleading his cause not without skill, "the
laws regulating woman's property there are just the reverse of
those which the greediness of man has established here.&nbsp; The
wife there can claim her share of her husband's property, but hers
is exclusively her own.&nbsp; America is certainly the country for
women,&mdash;and especially California."

<p>"Ah;&mdash;I shall find out all about it, I suppose, when I've been
there a few months."

<p>"But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such
much better auspices,&mdash;if I may be allowed to say so,&mdash;as a married
lady or as a lady just going to be married."

<p>"Ain't single ladies much thought of in California?"

<p>"It isn't that.&nbsp; Come, Miss Melmotte, you know what I
mean."

<p>"Yes, I do."

<p>"Let us go in for life together.&nbsp; We've both done uncommon
well.&nbsp; I'm spending 30,000 dollars a year,&mdash;at that rate,&mdash;in
my own house.&nbsp; You'll see it all.&nbsp; If we put them both
together,&mdash;what's yours and what's mine,&mdash;we can put our foot out
as far as about any one there, I guess."

<p>"I don't know that I care about putting my foot out.&nbsp; I've
seen something of that already, Mr Fisker.&nbsp; You shouldn't put
your foot out farther than you can draw it in again."

<p>"You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte.&nbsp; I
shouldn't be able to touch a dollar of your money.&nbsp; It would
be such a triumph to go into Francisco as man and wife."

<p>"I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a
while and looked about me."

<p>"And seen the house!&nbsp; Well;&mdash;there's something in
that.&nbsp; The house is all there, I can tell you.&nbsp; I'm not a
bit afraid but what you'll like the house.&nbsp; But if we were
engaged, I could do everything for you.&nbsp; Where would you be,
going into San Francisco all alone?&nbsp; Oh, Miss Melmotte, I do
admire you so much!"

<p>I doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy.&nbsp; But
the arguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certain
extent.&nbsp; "I'll tell you how it must be then," she said.

<p>"How shall it be?" and as be asked the question he jumped up and
put his arm round her waist.

<p>"Not like that, Mr Fisker," she said, withdrawing herself.&nbsp;
"It shall be in this way.&nbsp; You may consider yourself engaged
to me."

<p>"I'm the happiest man on this continent," he said, forgetting in
his ecstasy that he was not in the United States.

<p>"But if I find when I get to Francisco anything to induce me to
change my mind, I shall change it.&nbsp; I like you very well, but
I'm not going to take a leap in the dark, and I'm not going to
marry a pig in a poke."

<p>"There you're quite right," he said,&mdash;"quite right."

<p>"You may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and
I'll tell Madame Melmotte the same.&nbsp; She and Croll don't mean
going any farther than New York."

<p>"We needn't break our hearts about that;&mdash;need we?"

<p>"It don't much signify.&nbsp; Well;&mdash;I'll go on with Mrs Hurtle,
if she'll have me."

<p>"Too much delighted she'll be."

<p>"And she shall be told we're engaged."

<p>"My darling!"

<p>"But if I don't like it when I get to Frisco, as you call it,
all the ropes in California shan't make me do it.&nbsp; Well&mdash;yes;
you may give me a kiss I suppose now if you care about it."&nbsp;
And so,&mdash;or rather so far,&mdash;Mr Fisker and Marie Melmotte became
engaged to each other as man and wife.

<p>After that Mr Fisker's remaining business in England went very
smoothly with him.&nbsp; It was understood up at Hampstead that he
was engaged to Marie Melmotte,&mdash;and it soon came to be understood
also that Madame Melmotte was to be married to Herr Croll.&nbsp; No
doubt the father of the one lady and the husband of the other had
died so recently as to make these arrangements subject to certain
censorious objections.&nbsp; But there was a feeling that Melmotte
had been so unlike other men, both in his life and in his death,
that they who had been concerned with him were not to be weighed by
ordinary scales.&nbsp; Nor did it much matter, for the persons
concerned took their departure soon after the arrangement was made,
and Hampstead knew them no more.

<p>On the 3rd of September Madame Melmotte, Marie, Mrs Hurtle,
Hamilton K. Fisker, and Herr Croll left Liverpool for New York; and
the three ladies were determined that they never would revisit a
country of which their reminiscences certainly were not
happy.&nbsp; The writer of the present chronicle may so far look
forward,&mdash;carrying his reader with him,&mdash;as to declare that Marie
Melmotte did become Mrs Fisker very soon after her arrival at San
Francisco.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="99"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER XCIX.&nbsp; Lady Carbury and Mr Broune</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden
that he intended to devote the next few months of his life to
foreign travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a
Protestant divine,&mdash;as was much the habit with young men of rank
and fortune some years since,&mdash;he was not altogether lying.&nbsp;
There was indeed a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be
found attached to his statements.&nbsp; That he should have
intended to produce a false impression was a matter of course,&mdash;and
nearly equally so that he should have made his attempt by asserting
things which he must have known that no one would believe.&nbsp; He
was going to Germany, and he was going in company with a clergyman,
and it had been decided that he should remain there for the next
twelve months.&nbsp; A representation had lately been made to the
Bishop of London that the English Protestants settled in a certain
commercial town in the north-eastern district of Prussia were
without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the
matter.&nbsp; A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself,
but the income suggested was very small.&nbsp; The Protestant
English population of the commercial town in question, though
pious, was not liberal.&nbsp; It had come to pass that the "Morning
Breakfast Table" had interested itself in the matter, having
appealed for subscriptions after a manner not unusual with that
paper.&nbsp; The bishop and all those concerned in the matter had
fully understood that if the "Morning Breakfast Table" could be got
to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done.&nbsp; The
heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon
Mr Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that
could be found, the income was still small, the Rev. Septimus
Blake,&mdash;a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,&mdash;had been
induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir Felix
Carbury for a consideration.&nbsp; Mr Broune imparted to Mr Blake
all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel
as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining on
the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the means
of returning home.&nbsp; It was evidently Mr Broune's anxious wish
that Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a
comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that
should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a
young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;&mdash;but
especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy
return to England of the young gentleman himself.

<p>Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme.&nbsp; Terribly
difficult as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she
could not endure the idea of driving him into exile.&nbsp; But Mr
Broune was very obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought,
somewhat hard of heart.&nbsp; "What is to be the end of it then?"
he said to her, almost in anger.&nbsp; For in those days the great
editor, when in presence of Lady Carbury, differed very much from
that Mr Broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into her
eyes.&nbsp; His manner with her had become so different that she
regarded him as quite another person.&nbsp; She hardly dared to
contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what
she really felt and thought.&nbsp; "Do you mean to let him eat up
everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the
workhouse with him?"

<p>"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling!&nbsp; Do not say
such horrid things."

<p>"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself
compelled to say anything on the subject.&nbsp; What hardship will
there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in
Prussia?&nbsp; What can he do better?&nbsp; What better chance can
he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?"

<p>"If he could only be married!"

<p>"Married!&nbsp; Who is to marry him?&nbsp; Why should any girl
with money throw herself away upon him?"

<p>"He is so handsome."

<p>"What has his beauty brought him to?&nbsp; Lady Carbury, you
must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but
wrong.&nbsp; If you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and
will certainly ruin yourself.&nbsp; He has agreed to go;&mdash;let him
go."

<p>She was forced to yield.&nbsp; Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself
assented, it was almost impossible that she should not do so.&nbsp;
Perhaps Mr Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and
firmness with which he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his
travels.&nbsp; "Your mother," said Mr Broune, "has made up her mind
that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in
order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months.&nbsp;
She cannot make you go to Germany of course.&nbsp; But she can turn
you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so."

<p>"I don't think she ever said that, Mr Broune."

<p>"No;&mdash;she has not said so.&nbsp; But I have said it for her in
her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be
so.&nbsp; You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be
so.&nbsp; If you take her advice &pound;175 a year will be paid for
your maintenance;&mdash;but if you remain in England not a shilling
further will be paid."&nbsp; He had no money.&nbsp; His last
sovereign was all but gone.&nbsp; Not a tradesman would give him
credit for a coat or a pair of boots.&nbsp; The key of the door had
been taken away from him.&nbsp; The very page treated him with
contumely.&nbsp; His clothes were becoming rusty.&nbsp; There was
no prospect of amusement for him during the coming autumn or
winter.&nbsp; He did not anticipate much excitement in Eastern
Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for the
better.

<p>He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr Broune,
was duly introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent
his last sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained
his intentions for the immediate future to those friends at his
club who would no doubt mourn his departure.

<p>Mr Blake and Mr Broune between them did not allow the grass to
grow under their feet.&nbsp; Before the end of August Sir Felix,
with Mr and Mrs Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull
for Hamburg,&mdash;having extracted at the very hour of parting a last
five pound note from his foolish mother.&nbsp; "It will be just
enough to bring him home," said Mr Broune with angry energy when he
was told of this.&nbsp; But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well,
assured him that Felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no
such prudence as such a purpose would indicate.&nbsp; "It will be
gone," she said, "long before they reach their destination."

<p>"Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr Broune.

<p>Mr Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a
year's allowance in advance to Mr Blake out of his own
pocket.&nbsp; Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady
Carbury,&mdash;so that that unfortunate woman would often tell herself
that she was becoming subject to the great editor, almost like a
slave.&nbsp; He came to her, three or four times a week, at about
nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions as to all
that she should do.&nbsp; "I wouldn't write another novel if I were
you," he said.&nbsp; This was hard, as the writing of novels was
her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one
novel which she had written was good.&nbsp; Mr Broune's own critic
had declared it to be very good in glowing language.&nbsp; The
"Evening Pulpit" had of course abused it,&mdash;because it is the nature
of the "Evening Pulpit" to abuse.&nbsp; So she had argued with
herself, telling herself that the praise was all true, whereas the
censure had come from malice.&nbsp; After that article in the
"Breakfast Table," it did seem hard that Mr Broune should tell her
to write no more novels.&nbsp; She looked up at him piteously but
said nothing.&nbsp; "I don't think you'd find it answer.&nbsp; Of
course you can do it as well as a great many others.&nbsp; But then
that is saying so little!"

<p>"I thought I could make some money."

<p>"I don't think Mr Leadham would hold out to you very high
hopes;&mdash;I don't, indeed.&nbsp; I think I would turn to something
else."

<p>"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."

<p>To this Mr Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting
for a while, almost in silence, he took his leave.&nbsp; On that
very morning Lady Carbury had parted from her son.&nbsp; She was
soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad.&nbsp;
She felt that she could hardly keep up that house in Welbeck Street
for herself, even if her means permitted it.&nbsp; What should she
do with herself?&nbsp; Whither should she take herself?&nbsp;
Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of
Mr Broune forbidding her to write more novels.&nbsp; After all,
then, she was not a clever woman,&mdash;not more clever than other women
around her!&nbsp; That very morning she had prided herself on her
coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review
in the "Breakfast Table."&nbsp; Now, with that reaction of spirits
which is so common to all of us, she was more than equally
despondent.&nbsp; He would not thus have crushed her without a
reason.&nbsp; Though he was hard to her now,&mdash;he who used to be so
soft,&mdash;he was very good.&nbsp; It did not occur to her to rebel
against him.&nbsp; After what he had said, of course there would be
no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"&mdash;and, equally of course,
no novel of hers could succeed without that.&nbsp; The more she
thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be.&nbsp; The more
she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to
have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her
literary career not much more than twelve months ago.

<p>On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle,
wretched, and alone.&nbsp; She could not interest herself in
Hetta's coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition
to one of her broken schemes.&nbsp; She had not ventured to confess
so much to Mr Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages
of the first chapter of a second novel.&nbsp; It was impossible now
that she should even look at what she had written.&nbsp; All this
made her very sad.&nbsp; She spent the evening quite alone; for
Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with her cousin's friend, Mrs
Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and
her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see
something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion,
repent.&nbsp; It was all "leather or prunello," as she said to
herself;&mdash;it was all vanity,&mdash;and vanity,&mdash;and vanity!&nbsp; What
real enjoyment had she found in anything?&nbsp; She had only taught
herself to believe that some day something would come which she
would like;&mdash;but she had never as yet in truth found anything to
like.&nbsp; It had all been in anticipation,&mdash;but now even her
anticipations were at an end.&nbsp; Mr Broune had sent her son
away, had forbidden her to write any more novels,&mdash;and had been
refused when he had asked her to marry him!

<p>The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very
wretched.&nbsp; "I shall give up this house," she said.&nbsp; "I
can't afford to keep it; and in truth I shall not want it.&nbsp; I
don't in the least know where to go, but I don't think that it much
signifies.&nbsp; Any place will be the same to me now."

<p>"I don't see why you should say that."

<p>"What does it matter?"

<p>"You wouldn't think of going out of London."

<p>"Why not?&nbsp; I suppose I had better go wherever I can live
cheapest."

<p>"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not
see you," said Mr Broune plaintively.

<p>"So shall I,&mdash;very.&nbsp; You have been more kind to me than
anybody.&nbsp; But what am I to do?&nbsp; If I stay in London I can
live only in some miserable lodgings.&nbsp; I know you will laugh
at me, and tell me that I am wrong; but my idea is that I shall
follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I may be near him and help
him when he needs help.&nbsp; Hetta doesn't want me.&nbsp; There is
nobody else that I can do any good to."

<p>"I want you," said Mr Broune, very quietly.

<p>"Ah,&mdash;that is so kind of you.&nbsp; There is nothing makes one
so good as goodness;&mdash;nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as
the acceptance from him of friendly actions.&nbsp; You say you want
me, because I have so sadly wanted you.&nbsp; When I go you will
simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall I find a
friend?"

<p>"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady
Carbury.&nbsp; Two or three months ago I asked you to be my
wife.&nbsp; You declined, chiefly, if I understood you rightly,
because of your son's position.&nbsp; That has been altered, and
therefore I ask you again.&nbsp; I have quite convinced
myself,&mdash;not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but,
still, I have quite convinced myself,&mdash;that such a marriage will
best contribute to my own happiness.&nbsp; I do not think, dearest,
that it would mar yours."

<p>This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour,
that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood,
hardly at first brought themselves home to her.&nbsp; Of course he
had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone
which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an
earnest one.&nbsp; It was not that she believed that he was joking
with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment.&nbsp; When she
thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so.&nbsp;
But the thing was so improbable!&nbsp; Her opinion of herself was
so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and
littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such
a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife.&nbsp; At
this moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr Broune than
either perhaps deserved.&nbsp; She sat silent, quite unable to look
him in the face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging
back, with his eyes intent on her countenance.&nbsp; "Well," he
said; "what do you think of it?&nbsp; I never loved you better than
I did for refusing me before, because I thought that you did so
because it was not right that I should be embarrassed by your son."

<p>"That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.

<p>"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now if you
will accept me."

<p>The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes.&nbsp;
The ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a
handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven
her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when
she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable,
though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at
life in London, her literary successes and failures, and the
wretchedness of her son's career;&mdash;there had never been happiness,
or even comfort, in any of it.&nbsp; Even when her smiles had been
sweetest her heart had been heaviest.&nbsp; Could it be that now at
last real peace should be within her reach, and that tranquillity
which comes from an anchor holding to a firm bottom?&nbsp; Then she
remembered that first kiss,&mdash;or attempted kiss,&mdash;when, with a sort
of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that the man
was a susceptible old goose.&nbsp; She certainly had not thought
then that his susceptibility was of this nature.&nbsp; Nor could
she quite understand now whether she had been right then, and that
the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,&mdash;or
whether he had really loved her from first to last.&nbsp; As he
remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him.&nbsp;
"You can hardly have thought of it enough," she said.

<p>"I have thought of it a good deal too.&nbsp; I have been thinking of it for
six months at least."

<p>"There is so much against me."

<p>"What is there against you?"

<p>"They say bad things of me in India."

<p>"I know all about that," replied Mr Broune.

<p>"And Felix!"

<p>"I think I may say that I know all about that also."

<p>"And then I have become so poor!"

<p>"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money.&nbsp;
Luckily for me,&mdash;I hope luckily for both of us,&mdash;it is not
necessary that I should do so."

<p>"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything.&nbsp;
I don't know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that
you offer to give to me."

<p>"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her.

<p>And there he sat with it stretched out,&mdash;so that she found
herself compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so
with very absolute words.&nbsp; Very slowly she put out her own,
and gave it to him without looking at him.&nbsp; Then he drew her
towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her
face buried on his knees.&nbsp; Considering their ages perhaps we
must say that their attitude was awkward.&nbsp; They would
certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that any one
could have seen them.&nbsp; But how many absurdities of the kind
are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,&mdash;as long as they
remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes!&nbsp; It is not that
Age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging,&mdash;it but that
the display of it is without the graces of which Youth is proud,
and which Age regrets.

<p>On that occasion there was very little more said between
them.&nbsp; He had certainly been in earnest, and she had now
accepted him.&nbsp; As he went down to his office he told himself
now that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself
also.&nbsp; And yet I think that she had won him more thoroughly by
her former refusal than by any other virtue.

<p>She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a
thorough reaction of spirit.&nbsp; That morning the world had been
a perfect blank to her.&nbsp; There was no single object of
interest before her.&nbsp; Now everything was rose-coloured.&nbsp;
This man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such
assured proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the
considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,&mdash;so she told
herself,&mdash;were greater or more powerful.&nbsp; Was it not a career
enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his
friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

<p>Whether her hopes were realised, or,&mdash;as human hopes never are
realised,&mdash;how far her content was assured, these pages cannot
tell; but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over,
Lady Carbury became the wife of Mr Broune and, in furtherance of
her own resolve, took her husband's name.&nbsp; The house in
Welbeck Street was kept, and Mrs Broune's Tuesday evenings were
much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of
Lady Carbury.
<br>
<br>
<br>
<a name="100"></a>
<br>
<br>
<center>
<h3>CHAPTER C.&nbsp; Down in Suffolk</h3>
</center>
<br>
<p>It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in
adjusting his affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received
from Roger Carbury.&nbsp; Early on the following morning he was
once more in Welbeck Street, taking the brooch with him; and though
at first Lady Carbury kept up her opposition, she did it after so
weak a fashion as to throw in fact very little difficulty in his
way.&nbsp; Hetta understood perfectly that she was in this matter
stronger than her mother and that she need fear nothing, now that
Roger Carbury was on her side.&nbsp; "I don't know what you mean to
live on," Lady Carbury said, threatening future evils in a
plaintive tone.&nbsp; Hetta repeated, though in other language, the
assurance which the young lady made who declared that if her future
husband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quite
satisfied with the potato-peelings; while Paul made some vague
allusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with
the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.&nbsp; "I don't see
anything like an income," said Lady Carbury; "but I suppose Roger
will make it right.&nbsp; He takes everything upon himself now it
seems."&nbsp; But this was before the halcyon day of Mr Broune's
second offer.

<p>It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the
time fixed for the marriage was to be the following spring.&nbsp;
When this was finally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to
his own home, conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta
should pass the autumn and if possible the winter also down in
Suffolk, so that she might get used to him in the capacity which he
now aspired to fill; and with that object he induced Mrs Yeld, the
Bishop's wife, to invite her down to the palace.&nbsp; Hetta
accepted the invitation and left London before she could hear the
tidings of her mother's engagement with Mr Broune.

<p>Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,&mdash;had not brought
himself to determine that he would recognize Paul and Hetta as
acknowledged lovers,&mdash;without a fierce inward contest.&nbsp; Two
convictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposed
to this recognition,&mdash;the first telling him that he would be a
fitter husband for the girl than Paul Montague, and the second
assuring him that Paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that
forgiveness would be both foolish and unmanly.&nbsp; For Roger,
though he was a religious man, and one anxious to conform to the
spirit of Christianity, would not allow himself to think that an
injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury
repented of his own injustice.&nbsp; As to giving his coat to the
thief who had taken his cloak,&mdash;he told himself that were he and
others to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked
in order that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed.&nbsp;
If any one stole his cloak he would certainly put that man in
prison as soon as possible and not commence his lenience till the
thief should at any rate affect to be sorry for his fault.&nbsp;
Now, to his thinking, Paul Montague had stolen his cloak, and were
he, Roger, to give way in this matter of his love, he would be
giving Paul his coat also.&nbsp; No!&nbsp; He was bound after some
fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury,
and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of
punishment might be at least pronounced.&nbsp; How then could he
yield?

<p>And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to
women.&nbsp; It might be,&mdash;no doubt it was true,&mdash;that Mrs Hurtle's
appearance in England had been distressing to him.&nbsp; But still
he had gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to
Roger's thinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the
husband of Hetta Carbury.&nbsp; He would himself tell no tales
against Montague on that head.&nbsp; Even when pressed to do so he
had told no tale.&nbsp; But not the less was his conviction strong
that Hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that
knowledge to reject her younger lover.

<p>But then over these convictions there came a third,&mdash;equally
strong,&mdash;which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did
not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a
man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her
happy.&nbsp; As he walked up and down the walk by the moat, with
his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to
sit on the terrace wall,&mdash;walking there, mile after mile, with his
mind intent on the one idea,&mdash;he schooled himself to feel that
that, and that only, could be his duty.&nbsp; What did love mean if
not that?&nbsp; What could be the devotion which men so often
affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of
the beloved one?&nbsp; A man would incur any danger for a woman,
would subject himself to any toil,&mdash;would even die for her!&nbsp;
But if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where
was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another
is the truest proof?&nbsp; So, by degrees, he resolved that the
thing must be done.&nbsp; The man, though he had been bad to his
friend, was not all bad.&nbsp; He was one who might become good in
good hands.&nbsp; He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest
of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the
man's unfitness.&nbsp; What right had he to think that he could
judge of that better than the girl herself?&nbsp; And so, when many
many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own
heart,&mdash;though in conquering it he crushed it,&mdash;and in bringing
himself to the resolve that the energies of his life should be
devoted to the task of making Mrs Paul Montague a happy
woman.&nbsp; We have seen how he acted up to this resolve when last
in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from Paul
Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.

<p>When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart
and of assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his
rival's wife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in
his spirit than he had been during these months in which there had
still been doubt.&nbsp; The sort of happiness which he had once
pictured to himself could certainly never be his.&nbsp; That he
would never marry he was quite sure.&nbsp; Indeed he was prepared
to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boy on condition that such boy
should take the old name.&nbsp; He would never have a child whom he
could in truth call his own.&nbsp; But if he could induce these
people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at least a part of
the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he
thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an
interest in the property.&nbsp; But as a first step to this he must
learn to regard himself as an old man,&mdash;as one who had let life
pass by too far for the purposes of his own home, and who must
therefore devote himself to make happy the homes of others.

<p>So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his
story to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of those
revelations Mrs Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace.&nbsp;
Roger felt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her
marriage which could be said in the country much better than in
town, and he wished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to
which she should be attached and in which she was to find her
home.&nbsp; The day before she came he was over at the palace with
the pretence of asking permission to come and see his cousin soon
after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of talking about
Hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his
trouble.&nbsp; "As to settling your property on her or her
children," said the Bishop, "it is quite out of the question.&nbsp;
Your lawyer would not allow you to do it.&nbsp; Where would you be
if after all you were to marry?"

<p>"I shall never marry."

<p>"Very likely not,&mdash;but yet you may.&nbsp; How is a man of your
age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not
do in that respect?&nbsp; You can make your will, doing as you
please with your property;&mdash;and the will, when made, can be
revoked."

<p>"I think you hardly understand just what I feel," said Roger,
"and I know very well that I am unable to explain it.&nbsp; But I
wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as
if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir."

<p>"But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your
natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance
that you might have a son of your own.&nbsp; A man should never put
the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own
hands.&nbsp; If it does properly belong to you it must be better
with you than elsewhere.&nbsp; I think very highly of your cousin,
and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman
whom she intends to marry.&nbsp; But it is only human nature to
suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own
disposal should have some effect in producing the more complete
observance of your wishes."

<p>"I do not believe it in the least, my lord," said Roger somewhat
angrily.

<p>"That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the
present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life.&nbsp; There
are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for
their daughters;&mdash;but there are very many who may take a lesson
from the folly of the old king.&nbsp; 'Thou hadst little wit in thy
bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one
away.'&nbsp; The world, I take it, thinks that the fool was right."

<p>The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea of
settling his property on Paul Montague's children.&nbsp; But he was
not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make
himself and his own interests subordinate to those of his
cousin.&nbsp; When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he
found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of
hours.&nbsp; "I hope all our troubles are over now," he said
smiling.

<p>"You mean about Felix," said Hetta,&mdash;"and mamma?"

<p>"No, indeed.&nbsp; As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has
done the best thing in her power.&nbsp; No doubt she has been
advised by Mr Broune, and Mr Broune seems to be a prudent
man.&nbsp; And about your mother herself, I hope that she may now
be comfortable.&nbsp; But I was not alluding to Felix and your
mother.&nbsp; I was thinking of you&mdash;and of myself."

<p>"I hope that you will never have any troubles."

<p>"I have had troubles.&nbsp; I mean to speak very freely to you
now, dear.&nbsp; I was nearly upset,&mdash;what I suppose people call
broken-hearted,&mdash;when I was assured that you certainly would never
become my wife.&nbsp; I ought not to have allowed myself to get
into such a frame of mind.&nbsp; I should have known that I was too
old to have a chance."

<p>"Oh, Roger,&mdash;it was not that."

<p>"Well,&mdash;that and other things.&nbsp; I should have known it
sooner, and have got over my misery quicker.&nbsp; I should have
been more manly and stronger.&nbsp; After all, though love is a
wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is
here for.&nbsp; I have duties plainly marked out for me; and as I
should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so
neither should I by sorrow.&nbsp; But it is done now.&nbsp; I have
conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I look forward
to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as the source of
all my future happiness.&nbsp; I will make him welcome as though he
were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter.&nbsp; All
I ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence
there."&nbsp; She only answered him by a close pressure on his
arm.&nbsp; "That is what I wanted to say to you.&nbsp; You will
teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend,&mdash;as he
on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all,&mdash;except
your husband?"

<p>"There is no teaching necessary for that," she said.

<p>"As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me,
Hetta.&nbsp; You will soon come to find that I am very old.&nbsp; I
grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from
everything that is young and foolish."

<p>"You never were foolish."

<p>"Nor young either, I sometimes think.&nbsp; But now you must
promise me this.&nbsp; You will do all that you can to induce him
to make Carbury his residence."

<p>"We have no plans as yet at all, Roger."

<p>"Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall
into my plan.&nbsp; Of course you will be married at Carbury?"

<p>"What will mamma say?"

<p>"She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it.&nbsp; That I
regard as settled.&nbsp; Then, after that, let this be your
home,&mdash;so that you should learn really to care about and to love
the place.&nbsp; It will be your home really, you know, some of
these days.&nbsp; You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself
when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted
position."&nbsp; With all his love to her and his good-will to them
both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should
be Squire of Carbury.

<p>"Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that."

<p>"But it is necessary, my dear.&nbsp; I want you to know what my
wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are
yours.&nbsp; My mind is quite made up as to my future life.&nbsp;
Of course, I do not wish to dictate to you,&mdash;and if I did, I could
not dictate to Mr Montague."

<p>"Pray,&mdash;pray do not call him Mr Montague."

<p>"Well, I will not;&mdash;to Paul then.&nbsp; There goes the last of
my anger."&nbsp; He threw his hands up as though he were scattering
his indignation to the air.&nbsp; "I would not dictate either to
you or to him, but it is right that you should know that I hold my
property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that
the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if
I find that those for whom I act share the interest which I shall
take in the matter.&nbsp; It is the only payment which you and he
can make me for my trouble."

<p>"But Felix, Roger!"

<p>His brow became a little black as he answered her.&nbsp; "To a
sister," he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her
brother; but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision
on my own judgment.&nbsp; It is a matter in which I have thought
much, and, I may say, suffered much.&nbsp; I have ideas,
old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to
explain to you now.&nbsp; If we are as much together as I hope we
shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them.&nbsp; The
disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as
mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in
accordance with his own caprices,&mdash;or even with his own
affections.&nbsp; He owes a duty to those who live on his land, and
he owes a duty to his country.&nbsp; And, though it may seem
fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been
before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should
be continued in the hands of their descendants.&nbsp; These things
are to me very holy.&nbsp; In what I am doing I am in some respects
departing from the theory of my life,&mdash;but I do so under a perfect
conviction that by the course I am taking I shall best perform the
duties to which I have alluded.&nbsp; I do not think, Hetta, that
we need say any more about that."&nbsp; He had spoken so seriously,
that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she
did not venture to dispute his will any further.&nbsp; He did not
endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his
purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then
left her and rode home without going into the house.

<p>Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the
same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn
manner.&nbsp; Paul was received quite in the old way.&nbsp; Having
declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that Paul
should be again Paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might
be the cost to his own feelings.&nbsp; As to his love for Hetta,
and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly
unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate
rival.&nbsp; Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity
that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes.&nbsp; Roger
indeed made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again
speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he
looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might
perhaps remind her of his fidelity.&nbsp; But he spoke much of the
land and of the tenants and the labourers, of his own farm, of the
amount of the income, and of the necessity of so living that the
income might always be more than sufficient for the wants of the
household.

<p>When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the
Bishop at the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away
the bride.&nbsp; All those who saw the ceremony declared that the
squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year.&nbsp;
John Crumb, who was there with his wife,&mdash;= himself now one of
Roger's tenants, having occupied the land which had become vacant
by the death of old Daniel Ruggles,&mdash;declared that the wedding was
almost as good fun as his own.&nbsp; "John, what a fool you are!"
Ruby said to her spouse, when this opinion was expressed with
rather a loud voice.&nbsp; "Yes, I be," said John,&mdash;"but not such a
fool as to a missed a having o' you."&nbsp; "No, John; it was I was
the fool then," said Ruby.&nbsp; "We'll see about that when the
bairn's born," said John,&mdash;equally aloud.&nbsp; Then Ruby held her
tongue.&nbsp; Mrs Broune, and Mr Broune, were also at
Carbury,&mdash;thus doing great honour to Mr and Mrs Paul Montague, and
showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an
end.&nbsp; Sir Felix was not there.&nbsp; Happily up to this time
Mr Septimus Blake had continued to keep that gentleman as one of
his Protestant population in the German town,&mdash;no doubt not without
considerable trouble to himself.
<br>
<br>
<hr>
<pre>



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